


A Hitman, an Actor, and a Comedian Walk Into the Sewer

by Flanemoji



Category: Barry (TV 2018), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Depictions of Murder, Emotional Turmoil, F/M, Lots of guns, Lots of killing, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tags to be added as necessary, depictions of violence, inaccurate depictions of weaponry, lots of blood, lots of pennywise being a lil bitch, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-01-06 05:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21221021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flanemoji/pseuds/Flanemoji
Summary: “You know, Barry, although actors are known for our ability to multitask,focusis truly a central point of our work.” He turns now, talking to everyone in their little studio, “We must befocused, give all our attention to our task at hand; to our current role.” He levers a sidelong glance at Barry for just a moment before continuing. “An actor who takes on too many roles at once... well, they’re either very talented,” he stops, smiles a bit and shrugs, “or just plain terrible at all of them.”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Go over and thank my best buddy [ Phil on twitter ](twitter.com/_eddiebears) for this idea and for beta'ing every chapter that's gonna be posted for this hot mess express that's about to happen.

He’s sitting in class when he gets the call.

Now, Barry doesn’t usually pay attention to his phone during Mr. Cousineau’s class (not after how many times he’s gotten a text, overly saturated with bitmojis and weird effects, for something so, so inappropriate) but they’re almost done, and he’s feeling antsy. Mr. Cousineau is rambling on about passion and acting and feelings, putting yourself in the scariest of roles, the most daunting of characters, when Barry feels the telltale vibrations of an incoming call. He glances down, trying to be discreet, and he feels his eyebrows pinch together. The number isn’t one he recognizes, which usually isn't all that special. He gets calls from all kinds of assholes, do a hit here, a stakeout there, and, oh, _Barry_, don’t worry, I won’t bother you again but here’s another job you definitely don’t want to do.

Either way, it isn’t the unknown number that makes his fingers twitch and his tongue dry, it’s the location that it’s coming from. He stares at the screen, studying it, as if the answer is suddenly going to make itself clear if he glares intensely enough at it.

> _Incoming call from Derry, Maine_

Maine? He doesn’t know anyone from Maine? Scratch that, he doesn’t know anyone going to, or coming from, Maine. Fuches didn’t have any contact numbers from Maine, none of the Chechens had any Maine numbers....

Why was a number from Maine so fucking distressing?

“-arry? Hello, earth to Barry?” He barely registered the annoyed tone, startling just a bit when he felt someone grab his arm and squeeze. He looked towards the source, catching Sally’s eye as she looked him over, just the slightest bit of concern there. That’s when he realized everyone in class was looking at him, varying degrees of confusion or distaste on their face. Mr. Cousineau was glaring down his nose at him, a little bit expectantly and a lot bit frustrated that he wasn’t everyone’s center of attention.

“You know, Barry, although actors are known for our ability to multitask, _focus_ is truly a central point of our work.” He turns now, talking to everyone in their little studio, “We must be _focused_, give all our attention to our task at hand; to our current role.” He levers a sidelong glance at Barry for just a moment before continuing. “An actor who takes on too many roles at once... well, they’re either very talented,” he stops, smiles a bit and shrugs, “or just plain terrible at all of them.”

Then class is over. Mr. Cousineau is talking about payments and assignments, and the phone in Barry’s hand is like a lead weight. He haphazardly shoves all his things in his backpack and rushes out into the lot, feeling another little buzz against his palms.

> _New Voicemail Message_

He shoves himself into the corner under the stairs, and hesitates for half a second before he swipes on the screen to open up his messages. He puts his phone to his ear and waits, feels the crackling on the other end shoot through him, makes his palm sting.

_“Richie Tozier? Hey, it’s Mike… Mike Hanlon. It’s time for you to come back home.”_


	2. Fuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, crazy many thanks to my best bud [phil](twitter.com/_eddiebears) who read this whole chapter after I wrote it, and then tore it apart so it made sense to humans with basic grammar skills, unlike me.
> 
> Enjoy!

He throws up after the voicemail message. Right there, under the stairs in the back lot.

His head is buzzing, and his palm _burns_ like someone’s shoved shrapnel right between the flesh and bone.

_Richie. Richie, Richie, Richie Richie Rich—_

“—ry? Barry! Barry, sweetie, are you okay? Talk to me, boo-Bare.”

His vision swims, but he braces his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths through his nose. Sally is standing beside him, hand rubbing soothing circles into his back. He manages a quick glance up towards her and notices she’s frowning, her brows pinched together. She’s talking to him, but he’s only registering some of the words.

Okay. Sick. Phone call. Class.

He gets another rolling wave of nausea, but he swallows that one down. He coughs, giving her a thumbs up, wheezing a quick _“I’m fine,”_ before straightening up, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His girlfriend doesn’t seem convinced.

“What was that all about, Barry? What, you get a phone call in class and then you’re throwing up in the parking lot?” She’s talking fast, like she does when her emotions start climbing upwards. “Are you sick? Who called you?”

Barry (_Richie, Richie, Richie_) wants to comfort her, get her to calm down in hopes that it might calm _him_ down, but all things considered, he’s probably not in the best position for that.

He tries anyway.

“I’m fine, Sally, don’t worry. I just... got a little sick is all. And - and the call was just some random number.” He waves it off dismissively, reaching around in his bag for a bottle of water. She’s giving him that look that means she doesn’t believe him, but then her own phone rings, pulling all of her focus towards Gersh agents and possible roles.

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay?” She’s rummaging through her purse for a mirror, ready to fix herself and head off to see whoever it is at her new agents’ office. “I’ve gotta go meet up with the Mikes, but if you need me to stay—”

“No, no, I’m fine.” He interrupts her, shaking his head. Barry smiles, and he hopes she doesn’t notice how he’s gripping his phone tight enough to break. It doesn’t take much convincing, though, before she’s giving him a kiss on his cheek and running off, leaving him to his own devices. He takes a nice second or two to revel in those little bits of affection, in the care and the kisses and the feeling of being loved, before he’s right back to where he started. He doesn’t even say goodbye to the rest of his classmates, speed-walking towards his car.

_Richie Richie Richie. Richie Tozier._

Over and over, like a mantra in his brain, that name is all he can think about. How the fuck. How the _fuck_.

_Home. Come home. Home to Maine. To Derry_.

That sharp pain sears itself through his hand and his head at the same time, enough to make him wince. He tosses his bag into the passenger seat and he’s pressing the call back button before he’s got a chance to think of what he’s going to say. It only takes two rings for the other line to pick up.

“Richie!” The voice sounds relieved, and another stab goes between his eyes. “Man, I’m glad you called back. I was worried—”

“Who are you? How do you know that name?” It comes out through gritted teeth, and he’s breathing hard, like that will fix the feeling expanding his chest like a balloon.

_Balloons. Red balloons. Paper boats, sewers, yellow eyes._

Barry swallows his gasp, shifting his tight-fisted grip to the steering wheel, something to ground him. _Not real, not real. Just a nightmare._ The person on the other line is asking him if he’s okay, but it’s hard to concentrate.

One breath. Two.

“Who are you?” He repeats himself, reminds himself to focus. Take it slow.

“Mike Hanlon. From Derry. Derry, Maine? I know, this is gonna sound crazy, but I need you to listen to me—”

“Stop. Wait.” Behind his closed eyes, he gets flashes. A barn, a river, rocks flying through the air. A bolt gun.

Wide eyes, staring at him, pleading.

_Barry, I know you’re a good guy, I know—_

Mike is talking again, moving on to answer a question Barry doesn’t even remember asking. “And how could I not know your name, Rich? I have to admit, it was hard to find you, considering I kept getting ‘Barry Berkman.’ Is that your stage name or something?”

“Y-yeah. Sure. My stage name.” Barry Berkman, his name, that’s his _name_.

_Richie. Richie Tozier… Trashmouth._

“Yeah… that’s what we used to call you.”

He doesn’t realize he’s been muttering aloud, and he stops again, tries to focus. “We?”

“Yeah. We. Us. The Losers.”

He gets another pang in his head, behind his left eye, and more images rush forward. Someone in an alleyway, bleeding. Running through trees. Bikes. Gauze and cotton balls, stuffed into a fanny pack.

A cast, with a red scribble in the middle.

There’s pieces of people there, too; hair that glows bright orange in the sun, freckles across a scrunched nose. A steady voice even as it stumbles over the words.

Fuck, he feels like hurling again.

It’s too much at once, these pieces of memories that have no meaning to him, but they still send these waves of untitled emotion through him. He hates it; doesn’t he deal with enough of this bullshit?

Apparently, he’s been mumbling “fuck” under his breath for the past minute and a half, because Mike is worriedly asking about how he’s feeling, how he’s doing. Richie—no, _Barry_, wants to scream, wants to ask why the hell this stranger cares so much about him, why he called him, what the fuck does he need him to do in _Maine_.

But it’s hard to talk, hard to formulate the words into sentences that actually leave his brain and exit through his mouth. So he breathes again, hard and purposeful, until Mike stops asking questions.

Finally, after some quiet, Mike speaks up again. “Listen, I know this is probably really weird.” He keeps going, even when Barry interjects rudely with a _'no shit,’_ “But you’ve got to come back home to Derry. It’s time for you to make good on your promise.”

“What? What fucking promise?” His voice is rising, he can’t help it. Now there’s talk of promises, and his head _hurts_ and his hand stings, and he just wants to close his eyes and see _black_ for once. “I’ve never made any fucking promises to anyone in Maine before.”

“You’ve got a scar on your hand, right?”

“I’ve got scars everywhere.” Despite that, Barry looks down at his open palm, where it’s been aching, staring at the jagged line there.

“I’m betting you can’t remember where this one comes from though, right?”

The question registers so slowly in his brain, and he knows, _he knows_ that something is happening here, something he can’t explain. This request is a moving train, and Barry is rooted to the tracks.

But he’s not ready yet.

“Listen, Mike, right? Can I, uh—can I call you back? Later?” He’s opening and closing his hand, testing the grip and stretch like it’s a brand new appendage. He needs time to process this.

“Yeah, sure, no problem. But, Richie? I really hope you’ll come. We need you, man. All of us need to be together.”

_All of us._

“I’ll… think about it. Just… lemme call you back, alright?”

He hangs up before Mike even finishes agreeing, feeling as exhausted as he would fighting tooth and nail against a target. He slumps over in his chair, resting head against the steering wheel while his brain catches up to the conversation.

“What the fuck.”

…………….

It’s a miracle Barry makes it home without crashing into something. He keeps zoning out, the real world fading into hazy memories, grainy like the old Polaroids he used to take as a kid. He hasn't thought about his childhood in _ages_

He used to describe it as relatively uneventful. He’s lived in Cleveland since he was, like, sixteen, and that was that. He went to high school, graduated. Joined the marines, left them. Now he does… this.

But what about before Cleveland?

He sits in his car in front of his current residence, and thinks. He tries to think back to fifteen and fourteen, and it’s... hard. There were blips before, faceless friends in tall grass, green-blue water shimmering in the sun. Bikes racing down the street and walking sticks and falling asleep while looking for birds.

He pauses there. Oh. He had a friend that liked birds, didn’t he?

Barry heaves a sigh and ignores his pounding head, tries to follow that train of thought, only to end up with fuzzy half-nothing answers.

Fuck.

After about twenty minutes of sitting in his car, frowning at the dashboard, he decides it’s time to get the hell out. He’s in a weird daze while he gathers his things and trudges up towards the apartment. Nick and Jermaine were nice enough to let him take the spare room (though he’s paying his fair share of the rent, and seems to be the only one who grocery shops for actual food instead of cool ranch Doritos). He walks into his room, lets his bag drop at his side, and looks around.

There’s one or two boxes littered nearby, still unpacked, and a suitcase by the dresser with clothes spilling out. His closet is half full, only his nicest shirts hung, and scripts are strewn all over the desk, covering his laptop. It’s starting to look lived in. The walls are stark white, but there’s a nice lamp he found at Target, and there’s a mouse-pad that has little fluffy dogs all over it. It’s his room, he’s been making it his own.

Right now, though? He feels displaced.

It’s not like it’s felt like _home_ or anything just yet. He likes having his own space, he likes Nick and Jermaine well enough. But now, more than ever, it feels so infinitely not _his_. Something in his chest is tugging, pulling, _d__emanding_. It’s sinister and insistent and it slithers around in his head like a snake.

_Come home. Come home. To Derry._

“Fuck.” It’s a statement, his fists clenched at his side. “Fuck! Fucking… _fuck_!”

Now he’s shouting at the furniture, pacing around, emptying out bags, tossing shit on the floor and tossing more shit into the empty space left behind. Shirts, underwear, socks, sneakers. He looks at his nice lace up shoes, debating if he needs them for a split second before he throws them in, just in case. He’s rummaging through blankets and laundry and the bathroom cabinet, muttering curses the entire time he packs. The suitcase looks like a giant mess, but it’s stuffed, so that’s a plus, he figures.

Then he grabs a duffel bag, sets it atop his mattress, and kneels down to unzip his boxspring. He’s not sure what he needs, but he has a feeling he should be prepared for a fight. Soon he’s staring back at a rifle, a few silencers, an easily hidden pistol, and more than enough ammo dumped into the duffel.

He thinks to himself he must be fucking nuts, and then jams another gun in there for good measure.

Idly, Barry wonders how the fuck he’s supposed to travel to Maine with a duffel bag full of guns, shouts another profanity, and zips up both bags and throws them down on the floor. He flops on the bed, face up, so he can stare up at the ceiling. He covers his face with his hands, yells one more time, then flings himself into the desk chair and starts looking for flights to Maine. He picks the cheapest red eye he can find, and then starts arranging for an express shipment. Fuches sent him a gun to Los Angeles once, didn’t he? He pays, and decides he’ll cross that bridge if he comes to it.

Once all that is settled, he grabs his bags, shoves out the door of his room, and takes a few long strides across the living room. Nick and Jermaine are watching some bright, fast moving film on the TV.

“I’m going on a trip, guys! Don’t know when I’ll be back.” He shouts over his shoulder, slamming the door behind him.

He isn’t around to hear Jermaine reply back, “Oh, cool. Can you pick up some Cheetos and Gatorade on your way back?”

……………….

Barry (_Richie, Richie, richierichierichie_) is back in his car now, bags shoved in the trunk. He starts making a mental checklist of what’s left.

Pack bags? Check.

Get a flight? Check.

Everything else…

He has to call Sally and Mr. Cousineau and let them know he’s leaving on a trip for an extended period of time. He has to drop off his bag at the pack-and-ship, make sure he catches his flight on time. His head throbs.

Maybe he should add some painkillers to that list.

His phone starts ringing, and the anxiety that smacks into the center of his chest nearly knocks the breath out of him. He’s filled with a strange mix of relief and anger when he sees it’s not from Derry, Maine, but from Fuches himself. He answers the call and doesn’t bother with the pleasantries.

“What do you want?”

“Woah, there buddy, what a way to greet family!” He hears chewing and crunching on the other line. Fuches must be eating. It pisses him off for some reason.

“What do you want, Fuches? I’m busy right now.” His fingers tap along the steering wheel, reminding him of how fidgety he was as a teenager. It’s weird to start thinking about his past, all of a sudden.

“Busy? What, with your little acting class?” Fuches is scoffing, laughing at him, and it causes the anger to bubble up inside him. Fuck this guy.

“Fuck you. I’m going on a trip. I have some stuff to take care of.”

Now, Fuches sounds surprised. “Stuff? What do you mean _stuff_? And where?” There’s shifting on the other line, and his stomach twists. He doesn’t want him to know where he’s going.

“Back home. Something came up—”

“Home? In _Cleveland_? Are you _nuts_?!”

Barry wants to laugh, then. Like _'Yeah, I sort of am! I got a call from a familiar stranger to go back to the town I grew up in but don’t remember! Haha!’_ He clamps his mouth shut, though, teeth grinding together. “Listen, Fuches. I don’t owe you shit anyway. I’m done doing this stuff, I _told you _I was over it, so fuck you, and goodbye.” He hangs up the phone while Fuches is still sputtering an answer.

So, that’s one down.

Next, he calls Mr. Cousineau, who doesn’t pick up the phone. He feels sort of bad for telling him he’s going on a trip via a voicemail, but he has a lot to do. He cites it’s a family emergency, and that seems like a simple enough lie to upkeep. He drives along the road to the pack-and-ship store, thanking faceless beings in the sky that the workers there are too bored or don’t care about the contents of his duffel to question the weight. They promise it’ll be in Maine the next day.

It better be, for the fucking money he dropped on the shipment.

He texts Sally from the parking lot, offering to pick her up from her meeting at Gersh, which she readily agrees to. He wants to tell her that he’s leaving in person. So he pulls up to the fancy looking building and waits around for her, fiddling with his watch, staring at his hand. Now that Mike has brought it up, he couldn’t stop looking at the scar, some ugly-looking thing deep in his palm. He’d never paid it much attention, since the Marines really doesn’t shy away from cuts and bruises, but he realized Mike was _right_.

He doesn’t remember how he got it.

It’s been hurting periodically ever since the phone call, and he’s still clenching and unclenching his fist when an excited bundle of blonde tosses herself into the passenger seat, chatting excitedly about how amazing it is to be part of a reputable agency.

“I’m leaving.” He interrupts her in the middle of a spiel about minor leading roles she’s researching, and then he backtracks a bit when she gives him this hurt puppy look, waving his hands in front of him. “No! No no, I don’t mean like that! I just meant… I’m going on a trip.”

Sally tilts her head. “A trip? You mean like a vacation?”

“No, uhh… more like, there’s some… family stuff I need to take care of in my hometown.” He continues on, staring straight ahead, knots turning in his stomach. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, since this family stuff is complicated, but I just wanted to tell you before I left.”

“Before you leave?” She’s got that incredulous smile on her face, the one that says she a minute from getting upset. “When are you leaving? What about class, what about me? Our relationship? I mean, I’m about to get all these big roles, and who’s gonna help me practice and rehearse?” She’s fidgeting with her hands, back and forth, and he reaches over to touch her wrist gently until she looks at him. Her face softens and she starts to relax. “It’s really important, isn’t it?”

He nods, and she turns her hand over so she can hold his. “When are you leaving?”

He opens his phone, doesn’t let go of her hand. “My flight is at like… three AM.” He looks over at her and she’s smiling, all soft around her cheeks and bright in her eyes.

“So we have some time then? Why don’t you come over for a little while, before you leave?”

How does he deny such a nicely put request like that?

……………………….

It’s one-thirty in the morning when Barry is shuffling his way back to his car, out the door of Sally’s house. He closes it behind him as lightly as he can, even though he knows she’s not going to wake up.

He slides into the driver side of his car and settles in. He picks up the phone and goes to his recent calls.

“Hey… uh, Mike? Count me in. I’m on my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank Phil for the name of this chapter, which was at first the title of the draft, until they said "I mean, its literally his mantra here." so I kept it.
> 
> If ur interested in lil' updates or general tomfoolery, go give a follow to [my hyperfixation twitter](twitter.com/mreddiespagetti) where I cry about It & Barry


	3. Enter Stage Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to [phil](twitter.com/_eddiebears) for being the best beta a girl could ask for, and for the title. 
> 
> U the best Bro 
> 
> Thank you ALL so much for the support! It makes me like tear up ur comments keep me going! 
> 
> A note to everyone: my mom is getting married this weekend! So I won’t be able to start on the next chapter until late next week! But i hope you enjoy this for now :,)!

_Richie Tozier is thirteen years old, running frantically through the maze of sewers underneath his hometown, a man on a mission. He can’t find them, can’t find _ ** _anyone_ ** _ down here, and he’s terrified. He’ll never be found, none of them will ever be found, and there’s something, something that doesn’t have a name or a face, following him. _

_It’s going to get him. _

_ It’s going to get his friends. _

_They’re going to die down here, wet and cold and alone and _ ** _forgotten_ ** _ . _

_ Richie can’t stop running; he has to find them. He’s trudging through disgusting sludge, through blood and bile and shit. He wants to throw up, but he _ ** _can’t stop_ ** _ until he finds them. He won’t stop. He runs through pipes, sinking almost to his chest in the greywater (who gave it that name?) Richie screams until his voice is raw, crawls through tunnels and turns until he’s soaked and shivering. _

_ He’s so close to giving up. There’s nothing, no one, down here. They’re gone, his friends, stolen or hurt or _ ** _worse_ ** _ , and thinking about it makes him want to cry. Richie is ready to curl up in a corner and let the sewers swallow him. He was meant to die here, wasn’t he? Cold, alone, searching for someone, reaching for something just beyond his grasp. _

_He hears a splash, a choked cough, and he _ ** _runs_ ** _ , tripping his way over to the body turned over in the sewage. Richie is shouting, grabbing slim shoulders to turn them over, get them out of the water. _

_"Richie…” The voice is weak but it’s there, and Richie feels like he could burst into tears. _

_"Eddie…” The name forms so easily around his lips, like he’s always known it, because he has. Saying it opens the floodgates, turns the tunnel vision on in his brain and can only focus on Eddie, Eddie, _ ** _Eddie_ ** _ . _

_ Richie shakes him, gently at first, then jostling him like a rag doll. The panic is bubbling up in him, only the mantra of “ _ ** _Eddie, Eddie, Eddie!”_ ** _ spilling out. He has to wake up, he has to be okay, he has to answer him, just answer him! _

_ Eddie coughs, eyes fluttering open, and Richie feels his heart expand and burst with emotion. Happiness, relief, love. _

_Love, Love, Love _ _ (_ _ Eddie, Eddie, Eddie) _

_The words swirl around in his head, interchangeable; they’ve always meant the same thing to Richie. Eddie is breathing and Richie can feel the tears prick the corner of his eyes while he helps him sit up, pushes hair out of his eyes. Richie is babbling, asking Eddie if he’s ok, what happened, how did he get here, how do they get out. _

_Eddie is smiling at him, sweet like the ice creams they shared on the curb, soft like the breeze by the quarry. Richie can feel his words dying on his tongue, struck with feeling (lovelovelove) while Eddie reaches his hand out. His fingers brush Richie’s cheek, tuck a curl behind his ear, leans in a fraction closer and then Richie is leaning in, too. _

_"Is this why you wanted to find me?” Richie feels a cold spike through his chest, because Eddie’s tone is sugar, melted honey that doesn’t belong there. “Isn’t this what you wanted, Rich? We could kiss here, no one would know, it’ll die here - with us.” _

_Ri__chie wants to pull away, but every inch he moves back, Eddie comes closer. It’s _ ** _wrong_ ** _ , with the cold murky water surrounding them and Eddie’s warm body so close. He puts a hand on Eddie’s chest to push away, but his fist curls tight, because if he pushes he could _ ** _lose him_ ** _ again, and his heart can’t take it. _

_Eddie is smiling wide, manic, with his big doe eyes black and empty. Richie’s stomach is twisting painfully. His heart hurts. He wants Eddie, _ ** _his_ ** _ Eddie, and that’s wrong, isn’t it? Richie swallows hard against the ball lodged in his throat, thinks he might whimper when the black sludge starts to drip down Eddie’s lips. It drops in big, fat globs onto Richie’s shirt, tainting him. _

_(But isn’t it the other way around? Isn’t he the dirty one? The black spot that stains him, that can’t be washed out?) _

_Richie’s hands push against Eddie’s face, black spilling over his fingers in that sickly color like coagulated blood. Richie feels like he’s sinking, Eddie is staring down at him, smiling with all his teeth, but it looks so _ ** _wrong_ ** _ . He can hear himself pleading, voice choppy and broken. _

_Eddie, Eddie, Eddie _

  
Richie has had a headache for almost _ two _days at this point. He’d hoped maybe he could sleep on the flight, exhausted as he was, but sleep doesn’t always equal rest. He swears he’s more tired after the nightmare than he was when he went to sleep. Added with seven hours of flying that translates to a five hour jet-lag, it’s not that surprising. 

Plus, there’s the whole, remembering your entire childhood thing. That probably makes a man pretty tired. 

It’s been a bit of an adjustment for him, getting his memories back. It was glimpses at first; the feeling of riding on the back of a silver bike, wind in his hair, or cold water shocking his whole body when he jumps from the cliff’s edge at the quarry. Then they came in big chunks, like hail slamming into his chest. Big Bill Denbrough, his steady presence next to him when they were getting bullied. Beverly Marsh, sharing cigarettes with him behind the bleachers in school. Ben Hanscom, showing him how to make a bridge out of popsicle sticks that won’t break. Mike Hanlon, wrapping a strong arm around his shoulders and pointing out historical landmarks in the town. Stan Uris, giggling behind religious texts with him at Synagogue during his dad’s sermons. 

Then there’s Eddie Kaspbrak. 

Richie doesn’t want to so much as _ graze _the memories he gets of Eddie. 

He lands in Maine and grabs a rental car, driving the rest of the way to his hometown. Richie, no—_ Barry _ (he can’t decide; the closer he gets to Derry, the further he feels from Barry, from the life he’s made in the after) takes his time, hoping the not-so-familiar landmarks will spark some more memories.

_(But does he want to remember? There’s something lurking in the back corner of his mind, whispering, with sulfur colored eyes that glow in the dark, makes him scared of the memories) _

He’s driving over a rickety bridge with wood panel rails. Barry— 

_"Richie,” a familiarly fiery voice whispers, laced with endearment and exasperation, “stop telling the substitutes your name is Dick Toez!” He’s hiding a laugh behind his hands while Richie’s whole body ripples with pride for getting him to break. _

_“Oh, what, Eds? Don’t like my new name?” _

_“Shut up,” Eddie is snickering, has put a book up on his desk to hide his face. “Dick.” _

_“Yep! That’s my name! But don’t you worry about wearing it out.” Richie gives him a wink that has Eddie in a fit of giggles. _

He slams the breaks in the middle of the empty bridge. It’s carved with names, letters, hearts and arrows. His chest is so tight he feels like he can’t breathe. Barry stares, the memory that’s rushing back is so vivid he can remember every detail; the smell of old books in the class, the musical sound of Eddie laughing, the way the sun lit up the side of his face and highlighted his freckles, his soft hair, that dimple on his left cheek—

Barry curses at the steering wheel, puts his head on it and grips tight. This remembering bullshit is going to give him a permanent migraine. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, eyes flicking over to the scratches in the old bridge, clenching his teeth when images flood his mind’s eye. 

_The chipped wood, rough under his fingers. The satisfaction and pride that fills him up to his toes for just a moment, as he stares at his work. So easily carved there, for everyone to see but for no one to know. It’s still cowardly, but for a moment, Richie feels brave. _

He stomps on the gas pedal _ immediately _, racing his way back to the only vacancy in Derry, Maine. 

Richie never spent any time at The Old Townhouse, so Barry gets a break from the memory tidal waves he’s been drowning in. It’s a ghost town in there though, with eerie creaks and groans throughout the building. He takes longer than necessary to find his room, unpack the essentials, using it to reorganize his thoughts. These people he’s remembering, they haven’t seen him in years; it shouldn’t be too hard to just act like himself. 

_(Who is he, though? _

_One voice yells Barry Berkman at the same time another yells Richie Tozier, and it’s a jumble of words and feelings.) _

People grow up, they change. 

_(Why is he so nervous then? For these childhood strangers to see him, to judge him? It doesn’t matter what they think, it doesn’t matter if he’s different.) _

He came, didn’t he? Showed up on just a whim of gut insistence that he was needed. 

_(You just want to prove you aren’t a coward. You’ve always been running.) _

It’s safe to say that by the time Barry pulls up to the Chinese restaurant they’re all meeting up at, his brain is a frazzled wreck. To top it all off, Eddie has been a consistent star in the background of his mind. 

Every memory, every thought, Eddie Kaspbrak lingers just at the edges, with thick brows and a scowl. Each time Memory-Eddie appears in his brain, Barry has to ignore the way his heart stutters, how his stomach knots. He swallows down anything that threatens to break the surface when it comes to Eddie.

(_Like you always have, coward.) _

Barry figures he’s got it under control. It’s been nearly thirty years. His childhood crush is in the rear view.

Right? Right. 

He runs into Beverly and Ben in the parking lot as he’s walking towards the door, breathing a secret sigh of relief that he won’t be the only one to walk in. He throws on a smile, thinking about what he’s learned about immersing himself into a role. 

Exit stage left, Barry Berkman. Enter Richie Tozier. 

It’s easy, after the awkwardness of re-introductions and remembrances. They slip right into what they must have always been: rowdy, silly, and stupid. They exchange stories about the memories that have been surfacing. They share egg rolls and noodles, pass plates of teriyaki around like they’ve known each other their whole lives, and it really seems that way, sitting at that table, surrounded by laughs. Richie hasn’t felt so at home in years. 

_(It’s not as easy as he thought it would be. Richie walks in after making a fool of himself, spots Eddie, feels his heart stop short and pick up the pace in the next instant. He’s better than any image he could have conjured up, dressed in a cardigan and slacks, sharp comebacks and quick wit. He throws back drink after drink in hopes he can chase the warm feeling in him, can laugh easy and take it all in stride. _

_When Eddie mentions he has a wife, Richie laughs it off, jokes about dating the late Sonia Kaspbrak, then adds he has his own girlfriend back home, Sally. _

_“What kind of name is Sally, sounds made up.” Eddie snorts and throws back half a glass of wine in one swig. _

_"What kind of name is Myra? Sounds like you married a grandmother.” Richie shoots back, loving and hating the way it sounds like Eddie is jealous. Is he? He hides his smile behind a shot glass. _

_It doesn’t matter. Eddie is married. Richie has a girlfriend.) _

They go around the table, talking about their jobs and their reaction to the call. Eddie admits he crashed his car, Richie sheepishly says he threw up in a parking lot, and they all agree that the scar in their hand had been throbbing and sharp. 

“Richie was the hardest to find,” Mike says around a chopstick full of lo mein, “Everytime I tried to find him, the trail would end right around when you turned eighteen. I found him under his wild new stage name, Barry.” He’s addressing everyone, joking, laughing, but Richie—Barry—Richie (_ fuck _ his name!), feels his stomach drop into his ass. He smiles, too, tries to laugh it off, taking another shot of liquor. 

“Stage name?” Bev asks, one delicate eyebrow raised. “Barry is such a boring name for a stage, what the hell, Rich?” 

Richie laughs again, waving a hand dismissively. “I-I dunno, I just picked it. Seemed unassuming.”

Eddie is staring at his fork, Richie can hear the gears working in his brain. He prepares himself for whatever question he’ll throw at him; Eddie has always been able to see right through him. 

“Wait…” he starts, those piercing eyes pinning Richie to the spot. “Mike said he couldn’t find you, though. Were you just… going by your stage name this whole time?” When Richie nods, Eddie looks even more confused. “So you… changed your name? Why?”

Richie shrugs, pokes his food with a chopstick. “Like I said, I dunno. I changed it when I joined the Marines.” everyone is staring at him now, varying degrees of shock on their faces. They all start asking him questions now: why did he join the marines, how long has he been discharged, what does he do now? They laugh when he says he quit an auto parts job to be an actor, tip-toeing around his history as a soldier. Eddie though, is not deterred. 

“You didn’t answer me, though.” His eyes are only on Richie, the attention making him squirm. 

“What? I told you I changed it when I joined the Marines!”

“Yeah, but you didn’t say _ why.” _

It’s quiet, stifling. The rest of the crew is politely trying to look at plates and cutlery, but not Eddie. He’s staring, waiting for an answer. Richie clears his throat. 

“I just—I guess, there was a part of me that didn’t want to be Richie Tozier anymore. I dunno why, but once I changed it, it was easy to not go back.” He leaves out the part about how he feels so disconnected from his childhood self, how being Barry feels like a safety from this unidentifiable fear. 

They all try to shift the conversation back, discuss the reason they’re here. Mike mentions that all their reactions stem from fear, but seems hesitant to explain why. The only thing he _ will _ say is that the further you get from Derry, the hazier your memory gets.

It’s Bev who remembers the name first. 

From there it’s a shitshow. 

It’s like they all remember Pennywise at once. The yellow eyes that have haunted Richie since the phone call take shape, a clown with teeth like a savage animal, an unhinged jaw, missing kids, floating in the sewer. 

Fear. Pure, raw _ fear. _

The waitress brings out the fortune cookies and everyone reaches for one. Someone asks about Stan, and Richie cracks a joke about how he’s a pussy. He came, didn’t he? What absolves Stan from not showing up?

He looks down at his fortune at the same time that Eddie says his only has one word on it. Richie notes his is the same. The others start clamoring, talking all at once about cookies and clowns and how it’s all bullshit. 

Bev looks positively horrified, Eddie’s screeching tone is back at full volume, and Bill is grabbing everyone’s words and rearranging them into a sentence. Richie starts talking, fast paced and with no purpose, while Mike and Ben try to calm everyone down. When Beverly’s trembling hands slip Bill her piece of paper, everyone goes silent. 

_Stanley. _

_Guess Stanley could not cut it. _

The cookies on the table erupt, terrifying creatures hatching from the shells. Everyone shoves themselves away from the table, shit is flying, everyone is screaming, and Richie is sure Eddie’s name escapes him, buried under the chaos. The table is covered in disgusting, deformed nightmares, wailing and biting and attacking. 

He doesn’t realize he’s done anything until it’s already over. 

There’s smoke billowing out from holes in the table, the wood splintered. Everyone is silent, staring, and Barry looks down at his hand, finger pressed to the trigger, breathing heavy. The creatures are disintegrating, the waitress asks if they’re okay. She doesn’t even bat an eye at the weapon, still hot in Barry’s hand. 

Eddie starts yelling.

“A-are you crazy?! Is that a fucking _ gun _ in your hand, Richard?!” He looks crazed, wide eyes darting around wildly.

Barry looks down at his hand, looks back up at Eddie, clears his throat. He shoves the gun behind his back, into the belt of his jeans. 

“Uh...no?”

“W… w-hat the hell?! Did you just have a _ gun _ on you? Do you know how fucking _ dangerous _ those things are, you dickhead! What if it had ricocheted and hit one of us, what if you’d have missed! And who the hell just walks around with a gun shoved in their fucking pants?! And _ another thing—” _

There’s no space between the sentences, Eddie motormouthing around all his questions. His hands are flailing around, pointing, gesturing, grabbing someone’s shirt. Barry just stands there, mouth gaping like a fucking fish. 

No one else is saying anything, but they’re staring between the two of them, shocked expressions painting their faces. 

Oh, he is so totally _ screwed _ , isn’t he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking w this ! Pls follow / look at my twitter @mreddiespagetti for updates!


	4. Winds of Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! I'm back! Wedding went great and it's been a crazy week but!!! I have a new chapter for you and am already starting planning for the next one :3c
> 
> as always thank u thank u thank u to my best friend [phil](https://twitter.com/_eddiebears), who let me abuse the fact that they've seen Barry 10+ times to make sure things were on par. Best betta fish a girl could have

The aftermath following what went down at Jade of the Orient is nearly more of a shitshow than the actual _ thing _ that happened. 

Barry runs out of the restaurant first, long strides that take him to the front door in a matter of seconds. Eddie is right on his heels, shaky voice at a volume that could make dogs whine. The rest of the Losers are close behind, not making eye contact with any of the other patrons in the restaurant. 

Beverly calls Stanley’s home phone as soon as they’re in the parking lot, his wife stumbling through the words that Bev seems to already know. Her eyes are wide, lips moving silently while Patty Uris tells the tragic tale. 

_ Blood. Bathtub. Coma. _

They’re all standing in a circle, the focal point of it all being the phone in Beverly’s trembling hand, erupting with soft sobs and words from the other line. 

_Lost so much blood. _

_ Seemed okay when he went to the bath. _

_ Not sure if he’ll even make it. _

It’s dark in the lot they’re at, no sun or clouds or birds. It’s silent, stiff and crackling. Richie remembers Stanley likes birds.

_ Used to _like birds. 

Things kick up into madness when the phone line goes dead. Mike’s got his hands up defensively while everyone else yells about the clown, how It’s the reason Stan is dead. How he should have told them about the _ murderous fucking clown _ that’s hellbent on killing them again. At one point, each of them decides they’re getting the fuck out of dodge, heading back to the Old Townhouse separately. 

In their mad dash to gather their shit and run, they all end up in the main lobby of the empty hotel. Bev is drinking straight from a bottle, Ben is trying to coax her to talk. Richie stands nervously with Eddie, anxious for answers. Ben is questioning her about Stan, the way she _ knew _ and Bev admits that she knows the same fate for all of them. 

She can’t seem to get all the words out, but she makes her point clear: she saw them all die in the deadlights as a child and they won’t survive if they don’t kill It this time. 

Bill and Mike are there now, talking about some ritual shit that makes Richie feel like he’s losing his goddamn mind. Bill looks equal parts horrified and resigned, Bev is still drinking liquor like a sailor with Ben on his knees in front of her, looking worried. Mike is pleading with them, urgent tone in his voice. 

And Eddie...

Eddie hasn’t said a word since he snapped when Richie offered to procrastinate it another twenty seven years. Richie glances over at him, quick (and, he hopes, unnoticeably), a weird twist in his chest at the worried lines of his mouth, eyebrows pinched and shoulders hunched. 

He’s got no fucking idea how it happened, but Richie promises to stay the night at the Old Townhouse. 

By the time he gets to his shabby little room, he’s exhausted, and not just regular exhausted. He feels that bone-deep tired that comes from beyond your physical being. All Richie wants to do is throw himself on the bed and stare at the ceiling, which he does after kicking his shoes off. 

He gets about a full minute of peace and quiet before his phone starts buzzing. 

With a groan, Richie rummages around until he finds it, bringing the screen over his face. A smiling blonde is staring back at him.

_ Incoming call from Sally Reed. _

Oh. Oh shit, fuck. He didn’t call when he got in, did he? Barry scrambles to answer, training his voice into easy and casual. “Heeyyy, sweetie. How are you?”

“Barry? What’s the matter? You sound constipated.” Her voice crackles through the speaker. He opens his mouth to respond, but it must have been rhetorical, because she barrels on. 

“You didn’t message me when you landed! I was worried about you, Barry! Are you okay? Did you land fine? How long are you gonna be gone?” 

He tries his best to answer some of the questions she throws at him without remorse. 

He’s fine. Landed alive. Not sure about the length of time. 

Sally seems somewhat satisfied with those answers, at least enough to launch into a fifteen minute spiel about how the Mikes want her to audition for some sort-of-maybe-lead-role (whatever that means). He hums praises and congratulations at the appropriate times, closing his eyes and listening to her voice. It’s fast paced, excited, no breaks in between. He smiles a little, picturing her light eyes and straw colored hair, and Barry feels easy and content. 

That is, until the image behind his eyelids swirls and morphs into dark, deeply furrowed brows over expressive eyes, a wrinkled nose with freckles splashed across. There’s that same quick-no-breaths-between-speech happening, and his heart jumps and stutters. 

Richie gasps, sits up ramrod straight. He must whisper a curse word because Sally stops talking to ask him if he’s okay. 

He clears his throat, saying goodnight and hanging up the phone as quickly as possible. 

There’s blessed silence for another maybe five minutes before the phone is going off again. He glances over, scowling at the display name. 

_ Incoming call from Monroe Fuches. _

Yeah, no, fuck him. Barry doesn’t have the patience or energy to deal with whatever bullshit Fuches wants to throw at him. He hits the decline button and starts going through all the unread messages he’s got from ignoring his phone all day. 

A couple of texts from Sally, asking if he’s okay. One long text and three worried bitmojis from Hank. Two texts from his roommates asking if he’s going to buy the chips they asked for.

Overall, there’s no willpower left in him to bother responding to anyone. So, the phone goes on the pillow by his head, and he closes his eyes, hoping he’ll actually get some sleep this time. 

_ Barry Berkman is forty years old, sitting in the front seat of his car, trembling. _

_ He’s always had steady aim when it comes to these things. Just point the gun, line up the barrel, shoot; he knows he’ll hit the target. _

_ But today, his hands are shaking. He’s worried he’ll miss the shot, and he _ ** _can’t_ ** _ . Everything he’s done, everything he’s made, depends on it. _

_ Everything. _

_ “I know you’re not gonna… do anything crazy, Barry. I know you’re a good guy—” _

_ Barry tries to tune it out, curses while everything in him shudders; his heart is pounding so hard it nearly drowns everything out, his fingers are tight on the trigger, knuckles white. _

_ “...will ever know any - wait, _ wait _ , _ **wait** — _ !” _

_ In the end, it’s a quick shot, reverberating in the tiny space. He breathes hard and heavy, dropping the weapon into his lap. _

_ There’s blood everywhere; on his face, the windshield, all over the seat. It makes the car feel stagnantingly hot, the smell of iron hanging thick. It’s hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to _ ** _think_ ** _ . There’s tears dripping down in fat streaks down his cheeks, pink drops splashing onto his hands, and Barry doesn’t _ ** _know_ ** _ — _

_ "R-Richie…” _

_ Barry’s head whips around so fast he feels the muscles in his neck pull tight. _

_ It’s no longer Chris lifelessly sitting in the passenger seat, but Eddie Kaspbrak, in his cardigan-and-slack glory, those big doe eyes filled with fear and hurt. _

_ Richie reaches for his face faster than he can fathom. Everything’s sticky, warm and wet, Eddie’s tears mixing with the blood on his face. There’s blood seeping out of his mouth, so dark red it’s almost black. _

_ Richie’s trembling is back full force, so hard that it shakes Eddie where he holds him. He’s mumbling, nonsense forming into sentences. _

_ "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know— Eddie, I’m— oh god, oh _ ** _god_ ** _ — Eds, i-it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” _

_ Eddie looks so betrayed, his lip wobbling as his own hands reach up to grip his wrists, opening his mouth to speak in a whisper. _

_ “My mother knew, Richie…” He’s smiling now, with the blood dripping steadily down his chin, drenching his shirt. It never stops, like a waterfall, and Richie doesn’t understand, because there shouldn’t be this much blood… _ ** _so much fucking blood._ ** _ He’s barely listening to Eddie, whose thumbs are running softly against his hands. _

** _That_ ** _ gets his attention, and Richie stutters out a “h-huh?” _

_ "She knew you couldn’t be trusted, Richie. She knew you would hurt me, that you were dangerous. That you’d ruin me.” Eddie is still smiling, the blood that’s flowing from him filling up the tight space. Richie feels like he’s going to drown, the warm black liquid climbing up steadily. _

_ He tries to back up, but he’s trapped in the car, the stench of blood overwhelming him, the feeling of the sticky liquid making him want to jump out of his own skin. “E-Eddie, I-I’m sorry I-I—” _

_ But Eddie is relentless, getting on his knees, reaching into his personal space, and Richie notices his eyes are lighter now, like honey. His smile is manic, his body contorted in a way that doesn’t fit with his frame. The gunshot is weeping blood, mixing with the liquid pooling around them. _

_ "Don’t lie, Richie. You can lie to the other boys, to my mom, even to yourself,” and now the eyes are bright, shining gold, inhuman, “But you can’t lie to me, Richie. You aren’t sorry, you knew what you were doing, you _ ** _always_ ** _ did.” _

_ The blood is up to his neck now, and Richie is drowning, watching Eddie watch him with a sick delight of knowing a secret. Richie just wants out, he wants _ ** _out_ ** _ , please, please— _

_ Let him out, let him out _

_ Outoutout _

“**Let me out!”**

Richie wakes up on the creaky mattress of the room at the Old Townhouse. He’s drenched in, what he realized with relief, sweat, having soaked his clothes and the bed. His skin is crawling, too hot, too much, so he throws the covers off. 

His breathing is fast and hard, sharp intakes that stab his chest, make him feel awake,_ alive _. He clutches his shirt, trying to make room, and in the end he’s stripping down entirely, damp clothes on the floor. He focuses on his breathing, jumps in the shower and lets the water run absolutely freezing, prickling his skin, shocking himself to full alertness. 

It takes Richie a good twenty minutes to calm down, but not enough to go back to sleep; he knows he’s not going to be able to. He thinks about playing games on his phone, but the thought of seeing messages and missed calls makes his skin crawl. Instead, he throws on a ratty old pair of pj’s and pads down barefoot to the empty bar, focusing on the way the cold floor hits his soles. 

He isn’t expecting to see anyone down there in the dark. 

It scares the shit out of Richie, seeing Eddie there, hunched over the counter. His fingers are playing with the rim of the glass, eyes out of focus, staring out into the darkness. Richie shifts on his feet a little, debating on if he should just head back to his room, but Eddie snaps out of his daze then. Those eyes cut right to Richie, and Eddie shakes his head a little, like he’s coming back to himself. 

Richie should say something, ‘hello, how are you’, y’know, civil human talk, but he just stares. Eddie stares right back, silent, until he glances down at Richie’s feet. He wrinkles his nose, and that face of mild disgust should _ not _ be endearing, but Richie’s heart skips a beat nonetheless. 

“You’re barefoot.” Eddie says it like Richie is unaware. Richie looks down, wiggles his toes and gives him half of a shrug. 

“Yeah. I—” Richie realizes he can’t explain _ why _ he doesn’t have any shoes on. He can’t just tell him he wanted to feel the cold floor under him, let him ground him to reality. So he shrugs again, moves to sit on a barstool next to Eddie. 

Eddie doesn’t question further, just raises his eyebrows and goes back to circling his glass with his fingers. Eventually, Richie decides he needs a drink, too, so he grabs a bottle, pouring himself way more than necessary. He can feel Eddie’s eyes on him, the feeling sending little shivers over his back and shoulders. Richie takes a big gulp of his drink, clears his throat, fiddles with the designs in the glass. 

Eddie breaks the silence again. Richie can see out of his periphery that he was working through what to say, a little line on his forehead while he concentrated. “So, uh… couldn’t sleep?” Eddie’s voice sounds a little strained, tired and weary. Richie fights a desire to throw an arm around him, then wonders where the hell it came from. 

Richie shakes his head, coughs before answering. “Yeah… just. A nightmare.” He takes another thoughtful sip of his drink while Eddie watches him carefully. He looks like he wants to ask what it was about, but thinks better of it. 

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping, too.” Eddie admits, tracing lines on the old wood of the counter. “My brain feels too full, there’s so much to think about now.” 

Richie hums in agreement, stealing a glance to his side. Eddie looks as tired as he feels, with deep lines under his eyes and restless hands. Is he remembering as much as Richie is? 

Richie opens his mouth to ask how Eddie feels about this lost memory bullshit, but Eddie beats him. “You never told us why you had the gun with you.” Eddie’s voice is so soft, not accusing, just... wondering. It makes Richie’s skin crawl. 

_ Knew you’d hurt me. Knew you were dangerous. Knew you couldn’t be trusted. _

“I… I figured I’d rather be prepared than sorry.” It’s not a lie, but it still leaves a gross feeling in Richie’s tongue. He throws back another big gulp of alcohol. He should tell Eddie he’s scared. He should tell him that he doesn’t know any other way to protect himself, that he doesn’t know any other way of existing than with a gun in his back pocket. 

He doesn’t, though. He sits and stares straight ahead, waiting, waiting, waiting for Eddie to be scared of him, to question him more, to shift away. He waits, thinks of how he’s going to tell him he’s a good person, he _ is. _

_ I know you’re a good guy— _

_ I promise you, no one will ever know— _

_ My Lord, the Queen is— _

“It must have been hard,” is what Eddie says, snapping Richie out of the horror story in his brain. Richie stares at him, worried, confused, but Eddie is looking at his glass. He looks…. 

Sad.

It’s throwing Richie for a loop, he’s got no idea how to respond to that. “W-what… what do you mean?” 

“I mean… being a soldier, being in a war,” Eddie still hasn’t looked at him, he’s got that faraway look in him again. “I’ve read about, PTSD and all of that, it must have been hard to come back.” Finally, Eddie looks to him, smiling in this weirdly soft and sad way that makes Richie want to reach out. 

Richie feels his heart pound in his ears, against his throat, not letting him swallow or talk properly. Eddie gives this tiny little shrug and goes, “You said it yourself, once. You’re a lover, not a fighter.” 

Richie presses his lips in a hard line, because he doesn’t know what the _ fuck _ will come out if he lets them open. He feels overwhelmed with feelings; love and awe and adoration for Eddie, guilt and repulsion and hate for himself. Aren’t these the words he’s wanted to hear before? That he is a good person, that he doesn’t _ want _ to hurt, to fight, to cause pain.

If that’s so, then why does it stab him in the heart like a splintered stake? 

He doesn’t want to think about it (_ of course not, you coward) _ so he nods and restrains himself from patting Eddie on the shoulder. Richie takes the last of his drink in one swig, and tells Eddie he’s going back to bed. He tells Eddie have a good night, sweetest of dreams, don’t let the evil clown bite. Eddie snorts and tells him to fuck off, and that interaction alone feels more normal and at home than the entirety of his time in Los Angeles.

  
  
Richie doesn’t expect to fall asleep again, but he does. He dreams again, too, but this time, there are no clowns, there is no blood. There are no glowing eyes or guns or sewers. 

He dreams about grassy hills, a cast covered arm pointing out clouds. He’s on a blanket, because apparently the grass is itchy and gross and _ what’s wrong with a blanket, Richie? _

So he’s on a blanket, and every time he nods and smiles and says _ “Wow, amazing Eds,” _he isn’t looking at the clouds. He’s looking over at the smiling, awed face of the boy that’s pointing them out. 

  
  
The next morning, they all set out to find the old clubhouse that Ben had built deep in the barrens. It’s weird, to suddenly remember this place that had meant nothing to him last night, but Richie felt his heart tug when they reached the hole in the ground. The sense of safety and familiarity he feels surrounded by the crumbling posts, the dusty walls, it makes his chest squeeze. 

This place was like home and he’d just forgotten about it. 

They’re there to discuss whatever ritual Mike had brought up the night before to Bill. Mike explains bits and pieces while they all rummage around their old hangout. They stumble upon a coffee tin, _ For Use by the Losers _ ** _Only_ ** scribbled across, and when Eddie pulls out shower caps, it’s like the memory of Stan’s little offering hits them all at once. 

Richie feels detached from them all in that moment. They all look wistful, fond smiles on their faces at the thought of their friend. But Richie... can’t muster the same feelings he can see in their faces. 

He feels… upset that they’re all sad. He’s uncomfortable, seeing the look on their faces as they remember Stanley isn’t with them, is probably dead, that they’ll never see him again. He’s shifting his feet, fiddling with garbage in his pockets, because even if he feels… _ something _ at the loss of Stan, it’s blocked off. A big fenced wall he can’t figure out how to get around. 

He’s sad in the way someone would feel if their close friend told them their family member had passed. His gut twists seeing the look on everyone’s faces, but he can’t seem to tap into that same sort of emotion. Richie shifts around restlessly while Mike uses the new memory to discuss the concept of tokens and the Ritual of Chüd.

Apparently, now they get to go on a giant fucking scavenger hunt. So. That’s fun. Plus, they have to do some Scooby-Doo style split up, that Richie is wholeheartedly against. Isn’t that exactly how people get killed off in horror movies? 

No one seems too happy about it, but they all filter out of the clubhouse, Eddie pocketing one of the shower caps for Stan. Richie is the last one to start the trek up the ladder, and when a ray of sunshine filters through and hits a specific spot, he freezes. 

Richie has no clue how it’s managed to survive down here, through scorching summers and unforgiving winters, but it’s there, threads loose and rope falling apart. The hammock, made up of blankets stolen from living rooms, was Richie’s favorite place to relax. He’d had a stack of comic books and magazines, tinny music from his Walkman playing softly. He stares and stares, and it’s like his vision blurs and the entire space falls under a sepia-hued filter. 

_ "Richie! It’s my turn on the hammock, get the fuck off!” Eddie is glaring down at him, cheeks puffed and brows furrowed. His little fists are on his hips, and Richie is glad he’s got a comic book to hide half his face behind. _

_ “Dude, you do this every time, there’s _ ** _no_ ** _ fucking hammock rule.” Richie antagonizes Eddie, because it’s fun, loves seeing the flush creep from Eddie’s forehead to his neck, bites down on his smirk because he knows how it will play out. _

_ It’s a miracle they never fall the fuck out of this thing, what with Eddie practically throwing himself into it and both of them jostling and fighting. They always find a comfortable space though, and Richie _ ** _always_ ** _ makes sure he’s got something to hide behind, because Eddie loves to sit with his legs on either side of Richie, close enough to knock his glasses off with socked toes or kick him in the shoulder. _

_ So they settle, Eddie bitches and bickers, shifting around until he’s content, and Richie hides his dopey smile behind his comic book, snorting and bickering right back. This is his favorite place to sit in the clubhouse, because without fail he always ends up with Eddie on the other side. _

_ Richie takes even measured breaths, acts casual as always and pretends not to be aware of how his own hand falls on Eddie’s calf. He pretends not to see the little flick of Eddie’s eyes, down at where Richie’s warm hand is resting. He pretends he doesn’t notice Eddie’s shy little smile, tucked into his shoulder as he looks away, or how Eddie doesn’t move his hand, continues talking to the other Losers without a care. _

_ Richie pretends he doesn’t feel the nerves in his fingers lighting up as he rubs his thumb gently across smooth skin, or how those tingles travel up his arm, send shivers down his spine and burst in his chest. Richie pretends like it’s an absent minded gesture, that he gets no excitement or happiness from sharing a hammock with Eddie. _

_ Richie just hides his smile behind his comic book, hand on Eddie’s leg, and enjoys the moment. _

“Hey, Rich!” 

He snaps back to the present day, everything colored bright, shining at him. Richie shifts his gaze up dazedly, sees Eddie looking down at him from the opening of the manhole. The sun is shining behind him, making him look hazy and glowing. Richie feels like a goddamn idiot right now. 

“Are you coming, asshole? Or you just gonna hide in here all day?” Eddie’s eyebrows are scrunched together, deep lines on his forehead and between his eyes. His face is all frowny, annoyed and weary at the same time. Richie thinks he looks a little otherworldly. 

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I’m coming, Eds, calm down.” Richie shakes himself of his nostalgia and climbs out after Eddie. 

Richie decides he is _ not _ down for this Bullshit. Bullshit with a capital B, because it is absolute _ garbage _ that some fucking demonic clown just chased him through town, attacked him in broad daylight, and forced him to stare down his two biggest fears right next to that bitch Paul Bunyan statue. 

He’s clutching the arcade coin in his hand, so tight he can feel the ridges imprinting his palms. He’s leaving, he’s going home, fuck this shit. He says just that as he busts through the Townhouse, Ben, Bev, and Eddie looking equally tired and horrified. 

There’s clattering and there’s shouting as Richie stomps his way to his room, up the stairs. Ben is begging him to just calm down, stay, and Richie is yelling right back, “Fuck no absolutely _ not. _”

He slams the door in Ben’s face, throwing his duffle onto the bed and throwing his shit inside. Nope, nope, he’s going home, to L.A., where Barry Berkman has a budding acting career ahead of him. There’s banging and more pleading on his door, but it’s hard to hear with the sinister whispers of earlier clogging his ears. 

_ Ohhhh, Richie! Why won’t you play a game with me! No one wants to play with the clown anymore! Come on! Let’s play truth or dare! _

Richie remembers that ugly smile, those dead yellow eyes, and he trembles. 

_ But you wouldn’t want anyone to pick truth, would you? So many secrets you’re hiding, Richie. Or maybe we should ask Barry? He’s got more secrets, _ ** _doesn’t he_ ** _ ? _

He drops whatever is in his hands, inhales sharply. He recalls his hands on his shotgun in the park, shaking so violently he nearly dropped it. 

_ Oh, there he is! Little Barry Berkman! Maybe _ ** _you’ll_ ** _ play with me! Here, I’ll start. I _ ** _dare_ ** _ you to shoot me! Go on, go on! I know you’re capable! You’ve never hesitated before! Heeheehee!! _

Barry clenches his teeth and slams his hand down on his bag. _ Fuck. _

Fuck this stupid clown, fuck these stupid unwanted memories, fuck Derry, Maine. 

He’s almost all ready to go when he hears screaming. His whole body tenses, running to the door and throwing it open. He can hear Beverly, whimpering through shocked gasps, and he can hear Eddie, breathing hard, strangled noises escaping him. 

Barry has never bolted down a hallway faster. 

There, on the floor against the wall, is Eddie, blood dripping down the side of his face from a huge gash in his cheek. Beverly is crouched by him, hands hovering uselessly over him. Ben is next to him, frozen still. Barry can’t talk, can’t focus on anything except the stripes of blood on Eddie’s collar, smeared across his chin. 

“I-uh,” Eddie stammers, giggling hysterically, hands clenching and unclenching, “Bowers. Henry Bowers is in my bathroom.” 

There’s another flood of memories in Richie’s brain. A white trash bully, tormenting them as children. 

Barry turns on his heel, blood rushing through his ears so fast he can barely register any sounds. He feels like he’s watching every thought through a tunneled lens, stalking towards Eddie’s room, throwing the doors open with so much force they could leave cracks and dents in the walls. He doesn’t give a fuck. 

He gets to the bathroom with Ben hot on his heels, just in time to catch Bowers jumping out the window and tearing down the street. Barry curses, shoves Ben out of the way and heads back to his room. He tosses things on the bed, on the floor, until he finds another handgun and some ammunition. 

Barry does not think about what Ben might see, following him into his room, weapons strewn in various places from where he’d upended them. He doesn’t think about how Beverly and Eddie can clearly see him barreling down the hallway, clear as day with a gun in his white-knuckled grip. 

Barry only thinks about the direction he saw Henry Bowers run in. He only thinks about the deep-rooted desire in him to see his blood seeping from bullet wounds. Barry can only think about how his hands are pulsing, itching to be around Bowers’ neck, see the life fade from his eyes slowly, so slowly. 

Barry doesn’t think about _ anything _, except how there is an intense, almost instinctual need to see Henry Bowers dead, and that he needs to be the one to do it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope this will tide y'all over >;3 !!
> 
> I got a [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/mreddiespaghetti)! If you wanna send q's over hehe


	5. Old Wounds, New Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Long time no see! Sorry it took me so long to post this chapter, the holiday kicked my butt! But the next one is already in the works, and boy do I have more stuff for y'all ;) 
> 
> as always, thanks to my best bro [phil](https://twitter.com/_eddiebears), who this time, had to teach me the difference between a shotgun and a handgun. thanks bud.

Eddie Kaspbrak has been through a lot in his life.

Like, even more than he had ever _ thought _ he had been through, considering he’s spent the past few days being slammed left and right with memories of a murderous clown-entity, which, for starters, broke his arm, and _ then _ tried to eat him.

Twice.

(Maybe more, but who’s counting?)

The point is, Eddie Kaspbrak has been through a lot of shit, but being stabbed through the cheek in a hotel bathroom by his childhood tormenter-turned-clown-puppet, only to remove the knife and stab him right back (_ in the chest! _) is, surprisingly, not on that list.

Well, it _ wasn’t _ on that list. 

He can check that one off, he guesses. Yay for him.

The thoughts running through Eddie’s head are fast paced, disconnected, and honestly speaking, really fucking _ stupid _, so he’s giggling, manic and shaky, while he sits on the floor by the staircase of the Old Twonhouse. Bev is hovering above him, talking in a voice so shrill it just barely rivals his own when he’s in a panic. He can’t process what she’s saying over his broken little chuckles, the searing pain in his face, or the iron-salty taste of blood and tears in his mouth. 

Smiling hurts the knife wound (yeah… you heard that right, a _ wound _ from a _ knife _ ), but he can’t stop, not when Beverly asks him if he’s okay ( _ no, _ he is not), or when she asks how Henry Bowers got into his bathroom (he doesn’t _ know _ ), or when Ben and Richie show up, shocked and confused, to ask what happened (he got _ stabbed _, obviously.)

All he can do is sit curled up on the floor, barking out a weird strangled laugh, and say, “Bowers is in my room.”

What happens after that is a weird, slow-motion sequence of events, or at least, it _looks _like it’s slow motion to Eddie.

Maybe it’s the blood loss.

Either way, Eddie is still huddled against the crumbling wallpaper, Bev’s shaky hands turning his face by his chin gently to assess the damage, while Richie and Ben rush towards his door. There’s muffled slamming, muffled yelling, and then very loud, increasingly unmuffled footsteps. Eddie hears stuff being thrown, falling to the floor, hears a shakily shouted _ “Richie—!”, _ and that’s when Eddie decides to turn his head towards the commotion.

He only gets a glimpse of Richie, a dark grey blur that radiates such raw furious energy it could penetrate walls, but Eddie takes in the individual details as if he were able to press pause on this horror story of his life. 

Richie, stalking down the stairs with intent, teeth clenched and the line of his shoulders tense.

Richie, brows furrowed and expression so dark he looks like a stranger.

_ Richie _, knuckles stark white, his hand gripped so tightly around the handle of a handgun Eddie thinks he could snap it in half. 

Eddie thinks he hears himself call out, a soft, questioning _ ‘Rich?’ _ that no one really acknowledges. The three of them, Eddie, Beverly and Ben, watch as Richie practically throws himself down the stairs and out the door, slamming it behind him. The quiet left in his wake is crushing, ominous, and Eddie really _ does _ wish his life was a movie, so maybe some music could play and the oppressive silence wouldn’t be so scary.

They sit on the staircase staring at the door, until it hits Eddie that _ Richie _ just ran after Henry Bowers with a _ gun _ , and he was probably going to get himself killed, the _ fucking idiot _, what on Earth does he think hes doing? He swears—

“Eddie! Eddie, honey, you’ve gotta calm down!” Eddie blinks, Bev’s face coming into focus. She’s looking at him with concern in her pretty blue eyes and she looks way too pale. “We have to get you fixed up before we can go rushing after Richie.”

He must have said some of that out loud. Oops. 

Whatever, it doesn’t change the _ facts _ , which are: “Seriously, Bev? He just ran out of the house like some—some crazy idiot with a _ gun _ , like he’s gonna kill Henry Bowers! Do you _ remember _ what Bowers used to do to us?!” Eddie gestures wildly in Ben’s direction, “He straight up tried to carve him up like, like a fucking Christmas ham!” 

Beverly makes an offended noise in the back of her throat while Eddie keeps shoving his foot in his mouth, “Sorry, Ben, I didn’t mean it like, ‘cause you used to be—y’know, I’m just _ saying _—” and Ben, poor Ben, chokes on a laugh at that before clearing his throat. 

“It’s alright, Eddie, but Bev is right, we can’t just forget about... _ that _ ,” Ben points to his own cheek, which makes Eddie remember he has a _ fucking knife wound _ in his _ cheek _ . He brings a shaky hand up to his face, feels all the warm sticky liquid and his stomach _ rolls. _

Some deranged ghost from his past just shoved a fucking knife—which has been _ god knows where _ , and has _ god knows what _ all over it— into his cheek, which is bleeding and open and just soaking up whatever disgusting dusty-moldy-infection that hangs in the air at this rotted place. Not to mention, Eddie belatedly realizes, he is still covered in whatever nasty vomit-sludge mix the Leper at the pharmacy spat all over him, and it’s probably—no _ definitely _— seeping into his open cut.

“Eddie! Eddie, breathe, sweetie, _ breathe. _” 

It occurs to Eddie, then, that he’s hyperventilating, chest heaving in short little puffs, hands clenched into the front of his shirt. His chest feels tight, his lungs feel small, his cheek is stinging and his brain is overflowing with thoughts. 

“We gotta—we have to… _ Richie _ ,” he wheezes, searching wildly between Ben and Bev, hoping they understand. Henry Bowers could kill him, had already tried to kill all of them before, and they’re just sitting here, weighing options like they have all day. His trembling hands start patting his pockets, searching until finally, _ finally _ he finds his aspirator. He brings it to his lips, presses down, feeling a momentary relief when the medicine hits the back of his throat until the vapor hits the inside of the wound, open on sensitive flesh and it _ stings _.

Eddie drops the inhaler, winces, and the grimace makes the damn thing hurt more, an endless cycle of pain and bullshit that doesn’t fucking _ stop. _ He’s mumbling a litany of curses, cradling his jaw and curling into himself, heart racing, breaths coming faster, and it’s all so much, _ too much _—

There’s steadying hands on his shoulders, another set of soft and strong ones holding his hands. Eddie looks up, eyes wide, at his two friends staring at him in concern. They’re talking at him, but the words are taking so long to process. 

_ Breathe. Slow and steady. _

_ We got you, don’t worry. _

Eddie remembers, so clearly, the last time someone held him like this, told him they’d take care of him, and make sure he was okay. He was thirteen, cradling his arm, curled up against crumbling walls while some clown-monster hovered over him, over his friends. There were tears and spit and screams, and he’d never felt so much pain in his life, as that day when he broke his arm. 

_ Eddie! Eds, Eds look at me, look at _ ** _me_ ** _ ! _

Richie, those big eyes behind his glasses, just as scared but determined, holding Eddie’s face, getting between them and Pennywise, because he didn’t want Eddie to see It, for his last image to be _ that _. 

_ —Look, just look at me! I’m gonna set your arm okay? I’m gonna fix it, no-no look at me!— _

And Eddie remembers, can feel the phantom pain as if it was happening now, the way it hurt when Richie set his arm back. But he remembers Richie’s voice, grounding him in the chaos and horror, refusing to let Eddie’s attention drift. 

“W-we… we have to go after Richie!” Eddie’s voice sounds so thin in his own ears, but he refuses to waver. Beverly and Ben, who were talking in hushed and urgent tones above him, turn to look. Bev shakes her head, Ben starts to talk, something about how he’s hurt and—

“I don’t _ care _! Bowers could kill Richie, go after Mike or Bill, and then what! We’ll have lost them too?” Eddie is shaking his head, feeling the panic rise like water that’s sure to drown him. He thinks of Stanley, soft smile and worried eyes, so young to be so scared, and he shakes his head even more. 

They have to go after Richie. 

In the end, after a lot of bickering back and forth, convincing Eddie to at least let them wash the cut out, they end up in Bev’s car. Ben is driving

(_ “I can drive faster”—“Yeah, and you crashed your car before you got here.” _) while Bev and Eddie sit in the backseat. Beverly has Eddie’s first aid kit in her lap, patching up his cheek the best she can in the moving car, while Eddie glares straight ahead with his brows furrowed. 

“Eddie,” Bev sighs, only a little exasperated, “can you _ please _ stop pouting. I can’t bandage this properly when you’re frowning like that.” 

Ben snorts from the driver's seat and Eddie glares so hard that if he had super powers, it would light up in flames. “I’m not pouting,” he grits out, but forces his face to relax as Bev applies antiseptics and bandages. She lets out another sigh, but he can see from the corner of his eye that she’s smiling. 

“You’re a terrible patient, Doctor K.” Bev’s tone is teasing, using the old nickname bestowed upon him by Richie when Eddie was being a little overbearing with his first aid. Eddie smiles a little, wincing again when a sharp pain stabs into the center of his head between his eyes. The memory rushes at him as fast as Bowers had with the knife. 

  
  
  


_ “C’mon Doctah K, the damage can’t be _ ** _that_ ** _ bad!” _

_ Eddie has Richie sitting on the lid of the toilet in the Tozier home’s guest bathroom. The contents of his fanny pack are spilled out all over the counter, half in the sink, as Eddie glares at his best friend. Richie’s got his shoulders hunched, Eddie standing in front of him with only about an inch of height on him, even while the dumbass is sitting. _

_ The damn boy shot up like a weed in the past few months, and Eddie, little Eddie Kaspbrak, is still lagging behind in the puberty department. Eddie can tell Richie takes some twisted delight in the fact that they’re nearly the same height in this position, but he ignores him, focusing instead on figuring out where to start. _

_ "Shut the fuck up, Tozier. You are not allowed to decide what’s bad and not bad, considering you got your face mauled by those idiots for no fucking reason—” _

_ "It wasn’t for no reason! I was—” _

_ “I said _ ** _shut it_ ** _ .” Eddie shoves a rigid finger right up to Richie’s nose, who mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key. Eddie rolls his eyes and smothers down the smile that threatens to show; he’s trying to be mad at him right now. _

_ Eddie starts rummaging through his things, setting up tape and bandages and cotton balls with antiseptics, picking one up with a pair of tweezers. Richie tilts away a fraction of an inch, then stills when Eddie gives him a warning look. He holds Richie’s chin in one hand, dabbing gently at a cut above his eyebrow. Richie hisses and Eddie huffs out through his nose. _

_ “Don’t be such a baby.” _

_ “I can’t help it,” Richie whines, slumping even further into his seat, voice hitching when Eddie moves to a particularly deep cut on his cheekbone. “It stii-iings!” _

_ “Well,” Eddie talks over his complaining, tossing dirty cotton into the trash by his feet, “maybe if you wouldn’t have gone and got your ass kicked, we wouldn’t be here, hm?” He studies the layout of bandages next to him, picking up some butterfly tapes and more cotton. He tilts Richie’s face until he’s satisfied with the position, and begins to close up the cut on his cheek with the tape. “But, since you’re a dumbass—” _

_ “Hey!” _

_ “—who can’t keep his mouth shut at the best of times, now we’ve gotta do this shit.” Eddie ignores how his voice has slipped into fondness as he works, focused more on making sure Richie’s wounds are clean and closed versus his own anger. Richie seems to notice and takes proper advantage. _

_ “Aw, but then how would I get the great Doctor Eddie Spaghetti to take such good care of me?” Richie bats his lashes, winces when Eddie brushes a particularly sensitive bruise by his nose, and continues on. “I consider myself a lucky man, seeing as how you’ve got your hands all over me and I’ve got you all worried about me.” _

_ Eddie snorts, hopes Richie doesn’t catch the flush on his cheeks. “Oh my god, do you _ ** _ever_ ** _ shut up?” _

_ “No, I don’t believe the infamous Trashmouth Tozier has that talent under his belt.” _

_ “Okay, well, it’s time for you to learn that skill. I’ve gotta clean this cut on your lip.” _

_ Richie does quiet down then, eyes avoidant as Eddie cleans the split on his mouth. Eddie is close, close enough to see his red cheeks and his freckles, but he focuses on making sure the gash is nice and clean, so it will heal properly. Thankfully, Richie is quiet the rest of the process, Eddie patching him up the best he can. Once he’s finished, he looks over his work. _

_ Richie has bandages along his cheek and on his forehead, a dark purple bruise is swelling under his left eye, where his glasses were punched in. The cut on his lip stopped bleeding, but it’ll take a few days to close, and his nose will be a little swollen the rest of the day. Eddie nods to himself, putting his supplies away and letting Richie know he’s going to get him an ice pack from the kitchen. _

_ Before he can leave the bathroom, Richie reaches for Eddie’s wrist, wrapping lightly to keep him from going. “Hey, Eds,” he’s quiet, staring at his dirty shoes like he’s thinking over what to say. Eddie lets him, watching the gears work in his brain. _

_ “It wasn’t for nothing.” Richie finally says, looking up, serious and soft at the same time. Eddie opens his mouth to answer, but Richie cuts him off. “The stuff those guys were saying to you, it was messed up, and I knew…. I knew they were gonna try and fuck with you.” _

_ Eddie glances away, clenching his fist and acting stubborn. “I don’t need someone to fight my battles for me.” He says it like he doesn’t appreciate what Richie did, like it doesn’t stir up the butterflies in his stomach or make his heart clench with the way Richie cares. _

_ “I know you don’t, Kaspbrak,” and Eddie looks over, sees Richie smiling with this _ ** _look_ ** _ , continuing on in a little awed tone, “you could probably kick anyone’s ass from here to next Sunday.” _

_ Now, Eddie is sure that Richie can see the blush on his cheeks, knows that he’s got a smug little smile on his face because Richie knows just what to say to make Eddie lighten up a bit. Eddie relaxes his fist, stares down at the way Richie’s big hand is wrapped entirely around his wrist. He doesn’t even realize when he speaks, quiet into the silent hum of the bathroom lights. “I don’t like seeing you get hurt.” _

_ Richie smiles even wider, so big and bright Eddie thinks it could blind someone. His teeth are still a little crooked and the two front ones are a little bigger than the others; his dad is making him get braces in a few months. Eddie still can’t find himself thinking it’s not a nice smile. _

_ “But… Eddie, my love, I’ve got to be the knight in shining armor! How else do I get someone as cute as you to notice me?” _

_ Eddie barks out a laugh, rolls his eyes again and wrenches his hand out of Richie’s, who is calling out pet names that Eddie curses back at. When he returns, ice pack in hand, Richie still has that dopey smile on his face. _

_ “You know what you are? You’re a dumbass covered in dirt, twigs, and blood.” Eddie says, smiling, pressing the freezing pack to Richie’s nose. He lets out a squeal at the cold, and Eddie laughs more. “Some knight you are.” _

_ Richie puts his hand over Eddie’s, waggling his brows. “Well, who doesn’t like a knight who isn’t afraid of getting a little dirty?” _

_ Eddie groans, shoves lightly at Richie’s shoulder. “I swear, Tozier, you’re the _ ** _worst_ ** _ patient.” _

  
  
  


It takes them a lot longer than it should to reach the library. Or maybe, it just feels like it takes a lot longer to Eddie, who’s been shifting in his seat like an impatient toddler the whole time, asking Ben to hurry up. Bev had found some painkillers in his kit, and Eddie’s fingers kept twitching towards them. _ Later _ , he’d told himself, _ you’ve gotta be sharp right now _. 

He’s not even sure why they came_ here _, but Beverly and Ben insist that Bowers would try and come at Mike or Bill, since they were alone, and considering Bill could be anywhere, Mike, holed up in the library, is the next best target. 

Eddie is out of the car and rushing up the steps before Ben even shuts the thing off, stumbling over his own feet. Bev and Ben are hot on his heels, stopping once they enter the doors of the building. It’s eerily quiet, Eddie straining to listen for a hint of distress, a fight, people, _ anything _. 

Then, they hear it. 

Screaming, loud and animalistic, a struggle, furniture being toppled over. Eddie lunges towards the sound so fast he nearly gets dizzy, but he can’t think about anything except what he might find when he reaches the source. 

Mike, bloody and hurt. Richie, crumpled on the floor with gashes and open wounds, blood soaking the old wood, gasping for air—or worse—either of them, _ both of them _, staring distantly with no light in their eyes. Eddie thinks about how Richie used to get hurt, get himself into fights he wasn’t fit for but refused to run from. He thinks of Mike, holding in everything alone, shouldering the burden. 

Eddie isn’t sure what he’s going to find when he gets there, but all the scenarios in his mind terrify him to his core. 

They also don’t prepare him for what he _ actually _ finds. 

Mike is indeed on the floor, clutching his bloodied and mauled arm. There’s a small cut on his forehead that’s bleeding, but besides the fucked up arm, he’s alive and okay. Eddie looks around, for Richie, for Bowers, but doesn’t see them. Bev and Ben run in a few moments later, kneeling in front of Mike to take in his condition. 

There’s a commotion behind some bookshelves a few feet away, and they all turn towards it. Eddie can feel his chest constrict at the sound of blows landing, pained grunts and groans. His feet move before his mind can process the shouting that’s filling the room. 

_ “I’LL FUCKING _ ** _KILL YOU, _ ** _ DO YOU HEAR ME!” _

There’s laughing, a distorted horrified giggle that answers back: 

_ "Do it then! He knows you can, but then what will they all sa—!” _The words choke off in the middle, like a balloon being squeezed tight.

There’s another scream, incoherent, furious, and Eddie realizes that the person screaming is _ Richie _. He stumbles to a stop when he finds them tussling on the floor, a sharp intake of breath that stabs him painfully and pulls at his cheek. 

Richie is straddling Henry Bowers, his big hands wrapped tightly around his neck. There’s blood gushing down Richie’s nose, from a slit in his lip, and there’s a bruise blossoming above his left eye. The gun he’d left with is thrown off to the side, just out of his reach. That doesn’t seem to be a problem, considering Bowers is wheezing out short laughs, shaky hands scrabbling at the wood floor as Richie chokes him. 

Richie hasn’t noticed Eddie, and how could he? He is completely focused on the man under him, his face contorted, and he’s seething, teeth clenched, knuckles white with the force he’s putting onto Henry’s neck. He’s saying something lowly, to Bowers, that Eddie can’t hear, and those crazed eyes of Bowers flick over, notice Eddie, his manic smile gets wider. Richie turns then, staring at Eddie with a rage that has him stumbling back, hitting a shelf and knocking down a book. 

It’s like… he isn’t looking at Richie. The man on top of Bowers looks like a caged animal that’s been released. Everything about him, his stance, his hands, his _ eyes _, says murder, and the first thing that comes to Eddie’s mind is that it’s scary. 

It’s fucking terrifying. 

Some strangled sound escapes Eddie, and he regrets it instantly, because Richie’s (_ now _ it looks like Richie, humanity seeping back into him) expression crumples, like he’s coming back to himself and realized what he was doing. He opens his mouth, his hand goes slack for a split second, and that’s all Bowers needs to throw him off. 

It’s a quick, jumbled bit of chaos then. 

Eddie is on the floor somehow, Bowers is on top of Richie, and then he’s not, because Mike has thrown himself at him. Mikey rolls off as soon as Bowers is face up, Richie grabs for the fallen pistol and pulls the trigger.

_ BangBangBang! _

Three shots, and it’s over. 

Bowers is staring up at the ceiling, blood seeping from his chest and stomach into the old wood floors, soaking it. Richie is panting, hard, staring down at the body. Ben is huddled over Mike, checking on him, while Bev kneels by Eddie, who lets out a shuddering, watery breath. 

Richie’s head snaps towards him, and Eddie almost flinches, because he’s got a gun in his hand, and the last time he’d looked at him he’d looked… not like himself. But Richie looks equally horrified, taking in the scene. 

They all stare at him, but Richie only has his eyes on Eddie, waiting, watching. Eddie can’t make words come out, he can barely make his breathing even out, and that must do it, because Richie’s eyes glaze over, get far away like he’s experiencing something they all aren’t. He drops the gun, brings his hands up to his hair and shoves his fingers into the locks, _ tugging. _His lips are moving, but they can’t hear him. Bev approaches him grips his wrists with her slender fingers, tries to talk him down, but Richie isn’t responding. He goes when Beverly tugs him away from the body, crouching down in some corner while she tries to soothe him. 

It occurs to Eddie then that this _ is _ Richie. 

It’s Richie, who was a soldier and fought in a war. 

Richie, who had nightmares and carried a gun around.

Richie, who jumped at the first chance to protect someone he cared about, just like when they were kids. 

Eddie starts hauling himself up, moves his shaky legs over to where Richie is curled in on himself, refusing to look at Bev. Eddie tries to get his attention, with soft “_ hey _”s at first, until Richie starts slamming his hands against his head, mumbling loudly to himself. 

Eddie gets down on the floor in front of him, moving Beverly out of the way. He grabs his arms and wraps his fingers around Richie’s wrists, squeezing tightly. “Hey! Hey, Richie, _ Rich _, look at me.” He curses himself, because what’s the point of staying up until three am on WebMD if you can’t remember how to help someone having a PTSD flashback episode, and squeezes Richie’s wrists again. 

Finally, Richie looks at him, unfocused and watery eyes that make a huge lump form in Eddie’s throat. He swallows around it, speaks as evenly as he can. “Rich, hey. We need to clean you up, okay? You’re hurt.” 

Richie doesn’t respond, but the grip on his hair loosens a fraction, enough for Eddie to move his hands away from it entirely. He guides him away from Henry Bowers’ body, sits him down by a table in the main room. The others follow, talking quietly about what happened, Ben heading out to grab the first aid kit from the car. Beverly hovers over by Richie, distressed and quiet, hands reaching out like she wants to touch his shoulder, rub his back. They were always so touchy as kids; what happened? 

Richie is quiet while Eddie cleans him up. Bev works on fixing Mike’s arm while he works on Richie, shaky hands dabbing at blood and cuts. Richie’s eyes are far away and unfocused, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. It’s not the best patch job, but it’ll do, most of the blood smeared away and cleaned off, most of the cuts bandaged up. 

“Hey,” Richie’s eyes refocus on Eddie, stare at the white patch on his cheek intently. Eddie hesitates, then puts his hands lightly on Richie’s knuckles, watching as they relax a fraction from their tight fist. “I’m… glad you’re okay. I was worried.” His gut twists with the admission, Eddie feeling even guiltier at the fact that he feels guilty in the first place; there’s nothing wrong with worrying about your friends. He ignores that and continues. “Rich, listen, he was a bad person. He always was, and once Pennywise did whatever… weird possession bullshit…” Eddie trails off, looks up at Richie through his furrowed brows, hoping he understands. 

Richie, meanwhile, is looking at him like he grew a third eye. He doesn’t say anything, but he opens and closes his mouth like he wants to. Eddie is about to speak again, tell him it’s okay, that he doesn’t have to say anything, when Richie responds.

“Thanks, Doc.” He says it so soft, so quiet, a joke and a smile that barely flickers in his eyes. Eddie frowns, inhales through his nose when Richie’s other hand rests on top of his own over his fist. They stay there, quiet like that, with a weird tension between them, until one of the other Losers bursts the bubble. 

Richie snatches his hands back, clenches them like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t, and they both listen to what the others have to say. 

Apparently it’s Bill, and he’s going after Pennywise. Alone. 

Well, not if they can help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope yall are enjoying this as much as I am writing it! Reminder that I have a [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/mreddiespaghetti) and a [twitter](https://twitter.com/mreddiespagetti) where u can ask q's and look for updates! I cant wait to share more w u all :3c


	6. Hit Rewind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! very excited to be posting for u all !!!! the next chapter is already underway, and don't get too glum about the chapter numbers I've got there... i've got way more planned than y'all even know ;3c
> 
> as always, huge thanks to my best buddy [phil](https://twitter.com/_eddiebears), who makes these chapters legible and polished
> 
> and a BIG thanks to all of you guys!!! seriously, your kudos, comments, bookmarks... they all keep me going! U guys r part of the reason we still goin' at this baby! It makes me so happy and i totally get excited and screenshot comments to phil as soon as i get them

Richie is trying to focus... he _ really _ is.

He pinches his thighs and squeezes his hands until the nails dig into the skin. He taps his fingers on his knees, counts his breathing, he even tries to trace the cracks in the old wood on the table, something concrete to occupy himself with… but he _ can’t. _

Not when everything is playing over in his mind’s eye like some awful, choppy film, distorted and warped, even though it happened just a few minutes ago. It could have been _ hours ago, _ with the way that time is stretching and folding in on itself in his brain, but there’s this tiny, removed part of him that _ knows _ it wasn’t even a whole hour since…

Since…

_“Oh well, what do we have here?” Henry Bowers sounds way too pleased with himself, knife against Mike’s neck. It’s him, Barry knows it is, but _**_fuck_**_,_ _if he doesn’t look even more like a sociopath than he did when they were kids. His voice is all weird and pitchy, tone full of laughter, like this is all some big fucking joke. “Little fuckin’ Bucky Beaver!” He opens his mouth to keep taunting, but Barry is already stalking his way over, pistol tight in his grip as he fires a shot, reloading when the fucking bastard _**_laughs, _**_is rolled over and out of the way. _

_ Barry is shaking so hard his aim must be shit, and isn’t that some stupid goddamned trick of the universe, for his bullets not to land when it fucking _ ** _counts_ ** _ . He shoots again, misses _ ** _again_ ** _ , and that's when it dawns on Barry that this fucker is getting some otherworldly help from the demon clown. He shouts in frustration, ignores his friend on the floor and heads towards his target, who still won’t fucking shut up. _

_ “You come here ‘cause you couldn’t save your little faggot boyfriend?” Henry chuckles, so eerily familiar and out of place. “Thought you could protect your little hick ni--” _

_ Barry throws himself on him before he can finish. _

  
  


“Rich.” It’s so soft, softer than he deserves, but it snaps him back to reality just the same. Eddie is looking at him, those big brown eyes so fucking concerned, and it makes Richie want to curl up into a corner. His lips are in a thin, tense line, eyebrows furrowed, cheek covered in cotton and tape. Richie wants to reach out, wants to brush his fingers over the bandages, but he isn’t that gentle, isn’t that soft, can’t bear to have Eddie flinch away from him the way he did when he saw him with Bowers. 

Eddie doesn’t move away, though. He lifts his hands up slowly, so slowly, like he's reaching out to some scared and wounded animal (_ and isn’t that what he is? Just some uncontrollable predator? _) and starts to wipe at something above his eyebrow. Richie’s hands clench again, tight, because he knows they will start shaking otherwise. Eddie doesn’t say anything more, just cleans up what must be smeared blood on Richie’s forehead. 

  
  


_ He and Henry are rolling around on the floor, grunting and spitting and cursing. Barry brings the gun down and smashes it over Bowers’ head, growling when it seems to do very little. They’re clawing and kicking at each other, the gun gets thrown out of his hands, and then the fucking asshole starts _ ** _talking_ ** _ again. _

_ “I really should have finished the job with Wheezy back there, but I have to say he got me good!” Bowers waggles, and Barry feels the white hot anger swirling inside him, searing through his veins. His hands shake violently with how tight he’s got them gripped into Bowers, and it's a miracle he can hear anything this fucker is saying, with the sound of rushing blood so _ ** _loud_ ** _ in his ears. His vision swims, in and out of focus; Henry is there, alive and smiling, then he’s dead, bloodied, mangled, eyes glassy, and that image feels so _ ** _right_ ** _ to Barry in that moment, it’s all he can think about. _

_Henry Bowers dead._

_Dead because Barry killed him._

_"You ever get a good one on him, Trashmouth? I know you wanted to.”_

_For hurting his friends, for treating all this like some fucking _ ** _joke._**

_ “Would’a been easier, huh? If I had finished the job?” Bowers laughs and Barry is hit with a wave of fury and disgust that it makes him nauseous, blurs his vision even further. “Little shit can’t fight back.” _

_ Dead, dead, deaddead _ ** _deadDEAD_**

**_“_ ** _ I’LL FUCKING _ ** _KILL YOU_ ** _ ! DO YOU HEAR ME?”_

  
  


Eddie is talking to him, but Richie isn’t processing it. Words filter here and there: _ worry, okay, bad person. _ Richie tries to listen, stares at Eddie’s mouth as it forms around the words, hating how it’s muffled and fuzzy. Eddie touches his hand and Richie feels his own relaxing the tiniest bit, like a Pavlovian response, and he wants _ so badly _ to turn his hand over to grab Eddie’s in his own.

  
  


_ Bowers starts to talk again, but Barry shuts him up without remorse this time, hands squeezing around his neck as tight as they’ll go. The bastard is smiling, giddy, and Barry leans all his weight onto his hands, wants to feel the bones crunch and snap beneath his fingers. His jaw is clenched so tight his teeth hurt, his _ ** _head_ ** _ hurts, vision pulsing with his hammering heart. Bowers wheezes, looks for purchase in the hardwood, gives Barry the fuel he needs to squeeze every bit of life _ ** _out_ ** _ of him. _

_ “You vile fuckin’ piece of shit, I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you hear me? I’m gonna squeeze your fuckin’ throat until I feel your goddamn bones crack under my hands.” Barry hisses through his teeth, gets close to Bowers so he can watch life fade from his eyes, revels in the adrenaline that’s making his body feel like a live wire. _

_ Bowers is looking over to the side, broken puffs of air escaping his graying lips. Barry growls, tightens his hold. “What’s so fucking funny, you son of a bitch, huh? What’s the fuckin’ joke?” _

_ Barry follows his line of sight, feels all the pent up energy bleed out of him so quickly at what he sees. _

_ Eddie, eyes wide and terrified, backing himself into a corner. _

_ Knew you were dangerous. Knew you were a threat. Always knew. _

_ Can’t be trusted… can’t be trusted. _

_ You’re a good guy… won’t do anything crazy… wait-WAIT! _

** _BangBangBang! _ **

_ Time skips for Barry, because he was on top of Bowers, then under him, then standing over his bleeding body, gun in hand. He looks over to Eddie, still tucked against a shelf, breathing hard. _

_ You might be cool with this shit, but _ ** _I’m NOT!_ **

Eddie squeezes his hand, looks at Richie like he isn’t scared of him, touches him like he didn’t do anything wrong. He even says so, tells Richie Henry Bowers was a bad person, implies to Richie that he did what he _ had _ to do. 

It doesn’t help. 

Richie puts his hand on top of Eddie’s, feels how warm and soft it is resting against his palm. Eddie’s wedding ring is cold and hard in contrast, a sharp focal point that makes Richie want to pull back. 

_ I’ve got a wife! She’s gonna know, she’ll _ ** _know_ ** _ \--_

_ She _ **_always _** _ knew, Rich, knew you would hurt me._

One of the Losers comes in, talking about Bill and Pennywise and Neibolt house, giving Richie the chance he needs to pull away from Eddie. The action does little to relieve the guilt and sadness that squeeze his chest, but he shifts his focus to more productive matters. 

In a rush, they all pile into cars and head towards the source of their childhood nightmares. 

Neibolt is just as fucking awful as Richie remembers, maybe even worse. It’s somehow decayed further than it was when they were kids, which is kind of a miracle considering there wasn’t much left back then. 

By the time they make it to the entrance of It’s lair, they already look like shit. Ben was carved up by Pennywise through some mirror image bullshit, Richie’s been attacked by the fucking _decapitated_ _spider version_ of his probably dead friend Stanley Uris, and Bill has gotten so stressed, he screamed at Eddie until he burst into quiet tears, begging Bill, “please don’t be mad at me, I was scared.”

Richie thinks that’s the worst part, so far, seeing Eddie so… helpless this whole time. His memories of Eddie Kaspbrak are anything but timid; he was a tiny spitfire that fought back with every inch of himself, fierce and quick with comebacks. Richie figures that losing all those memories changed him, too, and seeing Eddie so distressed about being unable to move when Spider Stan attacked…

Richie has to resist the strong urge to pull Eddie up against him, reassure him that it’s okay. 

At the entrance of the lair, Richie _ can’t _ resist it; after Bev gets nearly drowned by some gremlin-looking naked old lady, Eddie practically refuses to go down. He swears he’ll get them all killed, that he’s too weak and Richie can’t take it. He reaches his hand out and presses his palm up against Eddie’s cheek, covers the words he really wants to say with the humor he hid behind as a kid.

“Who killed a crazy clown before they were thirteen?” (_ You’ve always been strong. _)

“Who stabbed Bowers with a knife he pulled out of himself?” (_ You’ve always been a fighter. _)

“Who married a woman ten times his own body mass?” (_ You’re married, and when we get out of here she’ll have you, and I won’t.) _

“You’re braver than you think.” 

Richie can’t handle the emotions that flood him, that wrap around his heart like the most welcoming and horrifying suffocation. He pats Eddie’s cheek roughly, hiding behind childish mannerisms, because he’s put his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see. Beverly hands Eddie the Monster Killer, and they go down the hole, into the heart of despair and night terrors. 

  
It’s lair is worse, so, _ so _much worse.

They follow the ritual as Mike instructs, tossing artifacts into a ceremonial basket filled with flames. They chant, they scream, they watch the fire burn and burn and _burn_ until the red is a weird, rubbery color and a balloon floats up into the air. 

They all watch, feel the dread that settles heavy on their little circle.

Shit really hits the fan, then.

Like any good, classic horror show, they all get separated. Richie isn’t sure where the rest of the Losers go, but, unlike at the Jade of the Orient, he won’t let Eddie more than a foot away from him. He clasps his hand around Eddie’s wrist and _ runs _, stumbling over rocks and steep drops.

Richie runs, and he doesn’t let go.

They follow twisting tunnels, away from It’s spindly legs, until they reach a dead end. Richie’s stomach drops into his ass, and his hand tightens on Eddie’s.

In front of them, there are three doors, chipped and old, with sloppily painted words across them in a color that looks _ suspiciously _like blood. 

Richie takes a deep breath. 

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> links to my [twitter](https://twitter.com/mreddiespagetti) & [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/mreddiespaghetti) in case yall wanna talk at me, ask me questions, look for updates... whatever ! i love bein' chatted at pls chat w me!! <3


	7. The Scary Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're gettin' there people >:3c thank you ALL so so so SO much for your comments and kudos! it really keeps me going! I love writing these chapters and seeing y'alls reactions. I've got a lot planned for u all so keep sticking with me!!! Thank you all so much for your support!!!
> 
> Always gotta shout out to my bro [Phil](https://twitter.com/_eddiebears) who beta'd this for me even while they're doin' commissions! Go give them a follow & support their work whenever they open back up!!!! [here's a link to their art/work twitter!](https://twitter.com/phillodough)

Richie tries to outsmart the doors.

He assures Eddie that Pennywise is fucking with them, having switched the doors in Neibolt house when they were kids. He and Bill had gone for the obvious option and gotten screwed, so Richie concludes the worst option,  _ Very Scary _ , will have nothing very awful behind it. 

Richie is  _ very  _ wrong, because the missing half of Betty Ripson’s legs skip out as soon as they peer inside. 

He throws it shut and rushes towards  _ Not Scary At All _ , and Eddie calls him a dumb asshole for choosing wrong the first time and not letting him choose the second time. Richie shushes him and swings the door open, and both of them stare at a very innocent looking Pomeranian, which promptly morphs into some giant frothing monstrosity.

Needless to say, Richie will never trust another Pomeranian in his life. 

Eddie screams and pulls Richie backwards, shoves the both of them through the  _ Scary _ door, and slams it closed on a slithering, toothy tentacle, plunging them both into the darkness.Their flashlights (Eddie’s stupid little headlight) do very little to illuminate their surroundings, so they stand there in the oppressive black and quiet. Richie turns back towards the door, deciding it’s safe to go back out, and then curses loudly, because  _ there is no more door _ . 

“What? What the hell are you— oh… oh  _ shit, _ fuck, no way!” Eddie is slamming his hands against the rock and dirt of the wall, voice pitching up frantically. “No way,  _ no way! _ Are you serious? It was _ just here,  _ it was  _ just fucking here _ !” He’s moving side to side, looking like he’s going to find a new door magically, like they’re not in a real life horror show. 

Richie stands there stupidly, useless, while Eddie has a mild panic. He watches Eddie pace around, patting his pockets, presumably for his nonexistent inhaler, eyes searching wildly. He looks at Richie, hands outstretched and brows up in his hairline, seemingly upset at his lack of a reaction. Richie opens his mouth to speak, though he has no idea what the fuck he’s going to say, when the darkness starts to lighten, revealing their surroundings. Eddie backs up against the wall, whisper-shouts at Richie who has started to take hesitant steps forward. He can’t help it; as things start to come into view around them, Richie feels a cold pang of dread in the center of his chest. 

There are unlit vanities stretching out in front of them, racks of costumes and accessories lining the walls. Props are thrown here and there, everything illuminated by yellow light that’s filtering from an open doorway to the left, and although everything is in varying states of decay, it all looks hauntingly familiar. 

Richie takes a few more steps towards the light, the uneasiness growing in the pit of his stomach.  _ It’s not real, _ he reminds himself, believes it only a fraction more when Eddie grips his wrist and anchors him. He follows Richie, who can’t see his face but can only imagine the knit of his eyebrows, the way his frown lines are becoming more defined, the little wrinkle he gets in his forehead when he’s scrutinizing something. The sound of Richie’s footsteps changes as they hit the floor, taps echoing on hardwood in an empty room. His stomach twists a little tighter. Richie stops short when bright light shines in his eye, doesn’t react when Eddie bumps straight into his back, feels a cold shock travel down his spine and send shivers across his body as he takes it all in, the arrangement of the seats, the red exit sign that illuminates the back corner, the obscured faces that stare at him expectantly. If there had been a smidge of doubt before, it isn’t there now; there’s no mistaking it.

It’s Gene Cousineau's studio. 

It’s so uncomfortably quiet. So quiet he can hear his own breathing heavy and out of sync with Eddie’s, can hear the judging whispers of the audience, can hear a set of footsteps walking towards him, towards  _ them _ , even if his mind is screaming at him to fucking  _ move. _

“Rich?” Eddie whispers behind him, so softly it barely breaks the quiet.

“Barry,” another voice answers, smiling and smug, like it knows him better, deserves an answer more. 

Richie’s breath hitches in his throat, he can hear his pulse in his ears, feels his heart slamming into his ribcage. He tries to back up, away from the approaching shadow, hits the wall of Eddie’s chest instead. Richie does not take his eyes off the figure that emerges from the void. 

_ It’s not real, it’s not real,  _ ** _it’s not real…_ **

“Fuches…” His voice feels thin and weak, and Barry hates it so much he wants to swallow the name up, repeat it with the same finality he’d had when he left for Derry. 

_ It’s not real, it’s not real. _

But he’s right there, short and broad shouldered and chubby, with his hard eyes that burn a hole in his chest, ready to rip out his secrets and lay them down in the open. He stops a few feet away from Barry, shoves his hands in his pockets, calm and easy-going. “So nice to see you haven’t forgotten me while you’ve been… what? Wasting time in this little shithole town?” Fuches waves his hand around in a dismissive gesture, takes half a step forward again, and now that he’s focusing, Barry can see that he looks the way he did that night in the Chechen’s basement, bloodied and bruised with a busted lip and rope-burned hands. 

“You know what  _ isn’t _ very nice though, Barry?” he continues, wide smile dripping blood onto the polished floor. “How you left me to deal with all that  _ bullshit _ alone. The Chechens, you know? They’re looking for you, and now the Bolivians, too, probably, considering you botched that fucking job. But when they go out searching for their Barry Berkman and can’t find him, who takes the brunt, hm? Who has to take the hits for  _ your _ fuck ups, Barry?!” Fuches’ voice is getting louder with every word, stepping closer as Barry move backwards, opening and closing his mouth around words that won’t come. 

“I… I—”

“You  _ what _ , Barry?” Fuches is practically snarling, fists clenched at his sides. “You’re  _ sorry? _ That you left me, after everything I’ve done for you? Everything I’ve built you up to be? After I gave you a  _ purpose _ in life!” 

Barry shakes his head, wars with his guilt and his fear and anger, because Fuches didn’t do fucking _anything_ for him except use him, and he _knows that._ But Fuches is practically _family_, has been there for him when he had _nobody_.

_ And why didn’t you have anyone, Barry? _

“It’s not  _ real _ , Rich.” He hears from behind him, a warm hand sliding down from his wrist into his own. It feels like it  _ burns _ his palm when he sees Fuches’ eyes flicker down at the movement, smiling that  _ fucking smile _ that makes Barry feel nauseous. His fingers twitch, because he wants to grip Eddie back tightly, but he’s scared, he’s a fucking  _ coward _ —

“What did you think? That you could just run away like you always do? Pretend none of it exists, that  _ I _ don’t exist?” Barry swallows, opens his mouth to talk but nothing comes out. “You thought you could just come over here and play the hero, meet back up with these  _ nobodies  _ for some stupid promise you can’t remember?! What about  _ me _ , the shit you promised  _ me,  _ Barry!”

“Sh-shut up.” Barry breathes the words out and they make no impact on Fuches, who speaks over him like it’s nothing, like he always has. He spits the words out like they taste acidic in his mouth, looks at Barry like he’s worth less than the dirt under his shoes.

“And for what, Barry? You leave your only family behind, break all your promises to me, to our clients, for  _ what _ , to prance around and be a fucking  _ queer— _ ” 

“Shut  _ up _ !” 

“—I didn’t waste my time on you for you to be some fairy who abandons the people who—”

“Shut up, shut  _ up, SHUT UP! _ ** _ SHUT UP!_ ** ” And he does, he  _ finally does _ , because Barry is heaving out breaths and holding the shaky end of a pistol against Fuches’ forehead. 

Barry thinks his ribs might burst with how hard he’s panting, his jaw clicking with the way his teeth clench. His hands are shaking roughly, enough that the little gears and locks of his gun click around in the quiet room. Part of his brain registers that Eddie’s hand clenches tighter around his own, but it’s shadowed by the way Fuches’ lips curl up sinisterly, how he stares Barry down without any of the fear that’s curling in Barrys stomach, rattling his hands.

“Well, what a surprise.” Fuches chuckles, the sound spiking annoyance and anger. “You gonna shoot me, Barry? Go ahead, kid, pull the fucking trigger. That’s how you solve everything anyway, isn’t? Put a bullet through someone when they tell you something you don’t wanna hear, right?” He’s mocking him, and Barry shoves the gun just a little bit harder against his skull, grips it just a little bit tighter in his hand. 

“Shut up, Fuches, shut the  _ fuck _ ** _ up_ ** , I swear to  _ God _ , I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Kill me?” Fuches’ laughs again, boisterous echoes around the room, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He tips his head back to do it, gets right back into position with his forehead pressed to the barrel of the pistol. “I already fucking told you to do it, Barry. But you won’t, will you? ‘Cause you’re just a fucking coward, and  _ everyone _ knows it.”

Other voices start to filter into the quiet auditorium, shouts of agreement. The audience heckles and jeers, Barry’s eyes flickering towards the darkened faces. His hand shakes while Fuches’ talks over them, louder still. “C’mon, just do it, Barry. You’ve done it before,  _ tons _ of times, haven’t you? Afghanistan, the Chechens, Chris—”

**“** ** _SHUT UP!_ ** **”**

“The list goes  _ on _ , Barry! So I know you can do it, so come the  _ fuck _ on!” Fuches grabs the pistol with one hand, shakes it hard against his forehead. “And then,  _ then _ once you’ve done that you know what you’ll have to do right?” His eyes flicker behind Barry, who’s yelling over him a litany of “ _ shut the fuck up, _ ” and “ _ stop  _ ** _fucking_ ** _ talking, _ ” that falls on deaf ears. There’s blood rushing in his ears, loud,  _ so fucking loud _ , mixing with Fuches’ words, with the increasingly loud shouts of the strangers watching them, and it feels like his head is going to  _ burst _ —

The lights in the studio turn on all at once, without mercy, bringing everything around him into view. 

The audience is on their feet, screaming curses at him, no longer shadowy figures he can’t recognize. There’s rows and rows of people, leaking puddles of blood onto the floor, the metallic copper smell overpowering his nose, heavy on Barry’s tongue. He chokes on a sob as they come into view.

Chris, with his gunshot wound leaking, Taylor bruised and bloodied with his arm bent at an awkward angle. The assassin he shot the night Ryan Madison was killed, the man he put a bullet in for that last job before L.A., the person he shot in cold blood in Afghanistan, and many,  _ too many _ , recognizable faces Barry can’t name, can only vaguely remember. People he’d followed and studied and eventually killed, all staring at him with angry, dead eyes, blood smeared across their faces. Fuches is laughing, distorted sound filling up the room.

It’s so much,  _ too fucking  _ ** _much_ ** , and he breaks, like a violin wire snapping when it’s wound too tight.

Barry drops the gun and falls to his knees, trying to breathe but managing only choppy, stuttered breaths. Everything is heavy and loud and suffocating. He can’t think, can’t  _ breathe _ , feels like his chest is collapsing in on itself like a great big void, sucking everything in.

That’s what he is, in the end, isn’t he? A black fucking void, ruining everything that gets close to him, snuffing out existences like blowing out candles, one after another, after  _ another _ . Everything in him feels like it’s close to bursting, exploding out onto the floor so everyone can see. 

“Stop, stop,  _ stop, fucking  _ ** _stop_ ** _ !  _ Please,  _ please _ —just shut up,  _ stop! _ ”

His hands tremble and slam against his temples, beating in rhythm with the thrum of his heart, the nausea rolling in his stomach. The noise, the smell of blood, the overpowering knowledge of what he is, what he’s done, it crushes him, and he knows he deserves it. He wants nothing more than to curl up here on the floor, drown in the river of red and black sludge that’s starting to pool around them. He deserves it,  _ he deserves it _ .

“I’m not a bad person! You  _ ma-ade _ me like t-this,  _ you did this to me! _ ” Barry’s voice is raw, cracks around the words he wants so desperately to believe. His eyes are shut tight, teeth clenched as he wheezes and pants, leaks pathetic tears onto the floor by his muddy shoes.

“Did I, Barry?” Fuches shoots back, accusing, hateful. “You took the jobs, _you_ killed those people, _you killed Chris_, that was **all** **_you_**, buddy! You can’t give me all the credit for that!”

Barry wants to scream, tell Fuches that he’s  _ wrong _ , but the words won’t come. They won’t come because he knows Fuches is right, knows it’s all his fault, he  _ knows _ , and he’s a goddamn  _ coward.  _

Coward,  _ coward,  _ ** _coward._ ** _ All you ever fucking do is  _ ** _run._ **

“I-I—!!” 

_ I don’t want to do this anymore. _

He  _ hasn’t _ wanted to do it for so long, felt little pieces of him break away and drift apart every time he shot a bullet between someone’s eyes. But he never did anything about it, did he? He never stopped, never actually put up any sort of fight, just did what Fuches told him and called it a day. He chokes on another sob, curls down into himself and screams curses until his throat hurts. Fuches is shouting back at him, and even if Barry can’t process the words, he knows the tone; it’s angry, disappointed,  _ disgusted _ . There’s words and shouts and screams and not for the first time since this nightmare started, Barry thinks his eardrums might fucking  _ blow. _

And then it’s just… blessedly quiet. 

Just like that, like a switch someone slammed their hand down on. There is no more Fuches screaming, no more smell of blood attacking his nostrils, no more murdered people demanding answers. 

There is nothing but the pitiful sounds that escape his throat, and the heavy, wheezing pants of the person in front of him. 

Barry looks at their shoes, starts to come back to himself as he studies the greywater soaked sneakers, and then Eddie is in front of him, dropping the Monster Killer onto the floor next to them. “Richie,  _ fuck _ , Rich, are you okay?” He reaches his hands out towards Barry’s face, stopping midway when Barry flinches backwards. He barks out a laugh, feels fat tears dribble down his cheeks as he takes in Eddie’s face, big brown eyes so full of concern. 

It breaks him.

Richie collapses into himself, slams his hands on his head as he coughs around sobs and curses. His fingertips dig into his scalp and twist into his hair. He babbles out apologies to Eddie, for what he heard, what he saw, for being too weak and too much of a coward to stop it all himself. 

Eddie just grabs at his wrists, like he had back at the library, pulls gently at Richie who refuses to let go. He hears Eddie sigh, mutter his name while he wraps his hands around Richie’s, intertwines their fingers the best he can with Richie trying to tug the strands out. He’s talking so quietly, but the words pierce Richie’s heart all the same.

“Rich, Richie,  _ look at me. _ Stop. Stop trying to rip out your fucking hair, you’re close to balding already.” It’s a weak joke, but Richie laughs anyway, thin and faraway. Eddie’s tone gets softer, serious, as he continues. “Richie, just look at me.” 

Richie shakes his head, keeps his watery gaze trained on the dirty floor, even as he lets Eddie guide his hands out of his hair. “I’m sorry,” He repeats, hates that there’s still tears dripping down his chin and onto his dirty jeans. 

“Don’t—” Eddie starts, stops to seemingly rethink his words. His hands are still in Richie’s, and it shouldn’t be as comforting as it is. “Look, whatever it is, we can talk about it after all this. I… I don’t fucking understand everything that just happened, but I do know this is what the fucker wants. He  _ wants  _ this, Rich.” Richie can’t stop himself from looking at Eddie then, with the tone of his voice so determined, with his hands in his. He watches Eddie, who is looking away now, his brows furrowed. “He wants us fucking....  _ terrified _ , he wants us to give up, wants us to die down here, and...and we fucking might, at this rate.” Eddie laughs, a little hysterical, looks back towards Richie and captures his gaze. Richie really can’t look away then.

“You… You told me, up there, that I was braver than I thought…” Eddie has Richie enraptured with the way he’s staring at him, his heart pounding hard enough he’s sure Eddie could hear it. “And… I-I think… I think,” he swallows, leaves Richie on the edge of his seat, “You… a-and the Losers… you guys help me do that.” 

Eddie is staring at him, and the words shouldn’t mean so much, shouldn’t make Richie feel like Eddie is sharing a deep, hidden secret with him, but it does. 

“You make me want to be brave again.”

Eddie’s face is covered in dirt and sewage, the bandage on his cheek a disgusting grey color with all the shit it must have soaked up. His hair is a mess, his clothes are filthy, and Richie has never felt more in love with him.

Richie opens his mouth, like he’s going to say something, when he knows he has no words to answer Eddie. There’s a palpable tension between them as they sit on the floor, hands clasped and heads close together. Richie feels his chest balloon with a feeling, a feeling he’s been so scared of for so long. He wants to share it with Eddie, share this last secret the way Eddie shared his, but he’s still a coward, in the end, still too scared of what he has yet to lose. 

There’s an inhuman screech that rattles the walls around them, breaking the trance. Richie and Eddie both shoot up to their feet, tripping over boulders towards the source. Eddie’s hand is still in Richie’s, and the warmth that radiates from that one point spreads through his whole body. They find an opening, back towards It’s lair, see it’s horrifying spider shape fill up the space ahead of them. The other Losers are there, staring, while Mike tries to bargain with his own life.

Richie stands and stares with them, feels Eddie tense up next to him. He looks over, takes in Eddie’s profile in the shadowy light.

_ You thought you could just run away, like you always do? Pretend none of it exists? _

_ You’re just a fucking coward. _

Richie remembers, then, being thirteen and in the sewers. Remembers when It had offered them all happy, successful lives if they just let It take Bill. He remembers how he’d taken up the bat in his hands, full of fear, and made a decision. 

Richie realizes, just like before, in this nightmare hell-pit created by a child-eating clown, that he has come to the same decision.

It’s time to kill this fucking clown. 

Richie doesn’t think. He let’s go of Eddie’s hand, picks up a rock, and runs towards the opening, towards the dangerous center of it all. 

_ Coward, coward,  _ ** _coward._ **

He hurls the rock right at It’s stupid giant head, feels a shiver run down his spine when it turns it’s ugly, sadistic face towards him. Richie reaches deep into himself, that thirteen year old self that wanted nothing but to feel loved, feel accepted, the part of him that’s been locked away all this time, and he screams. 

He calls Pennywise a sloppy bitch. He picks up another rock, yells at the top of his lungs that he isn’t scared, that he’ll fight him. He opens his mouth to call him a motherfucker and winds his arm back to chuck another stone.

Richie only makes it halfway through the expletive when everything goes absolutely frigid. 

Time screeches to a halt. There’s a bright blue flare of light that burns his retinas, seeps into his body through his skull and tingles it’s way under his skin. He feels nothing, weightless and cold, drifting into the empty void ahead of him, behind him, all around him, even  _ inside him _ .

Richie senses something, something that makes him  _ feel _ , and that alone is enough to make him want to reach out, head towards it as it beckons him. 

The bright light flares again in the darkness, pierces his eyes, his head, his  _ heart _ .

And then finally… _ finally _ …

It bursts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty ty ty ty ty as always lovely readers !!! shoot me a line, send me a comment, drop a kudos, harass me on my twitter / cc !!! :* <3


	8. Floating, Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, feels like ages! I have to admit that this chapter has been written for weeks... but Phil and I both experienced a period of brain rot so bad that all we did was get on call and play mobile games (Sally's Salon for phil, 2048 and Candy Crush for me.) Many thanks to them who edited this last night while I slept on the phone.
> 
> BUT! The chapter is finally here! I've been so excited to share this one with you UwU I hope you guys like it <3!!!!

Holy shit. 

_ Holy shit.  _

He just did that. He really  _ just did that! _

Eddie stares at the broken fence spike in his hand, the Monster Killer, as Bev had called it. He stares at it like it might turn into a snake and hiss at him, with the way he just used it to slam the shit out of the man— _ Fuches, that’s what Richie had called him _ —who was screaming at them, at Richie.

The Monster Killer does not, in fact, shapeshift into anything terrifying. It just sits, rusted and warm, in his hands, feeling like something more powerful than it is; making  _ Eddie  _ feel more powerful than he is. 

He is still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he just  _ whacked _ some asshole over the head with a metal rod when Eddie hears Richie’s choppy little gasps, and he remembers:  _ ‘oh shit, Richie just had a full scale breakdown in the clown lair.’  _ He turns on his heel and practically trips over his own feet getting on the floor in front of him. “Oh shit, oh  _ fuck _ ,” he mutters under his breath, tossing his weapon to the side, instantly reaching out for Richie, feeling the anxiety spike when he flinches away. Eddie’s hands hover in the air for a second, the overwhelming feeling of uselessness weighing down on his chest. 

Eddie remembers, watching Richie crumble into himself, how when they were kids, it was so easy to reach out, to touch and to comfort. They rarely hesitated, if ever, to roughhouse and hug and hold hands. It wasn’t weird or scary. It was safe and warm and _fuck, this stupid _**_asshole_** _is trying to rip his hair out of the roots_—

“Hey,  _ hey,  _ stop that— _ fuck, _ ” Eddie reaches out again, doesn’t care that Richie might try and pull away. He makes a weak joke about how he’s old and balding before taking Richie’s hands in his own, occupying them so he can’t keep tugging. “Richie,  _ Rich…  _ look at me,” Eddie practically begs, can feel the want to hold Richie’s face in his hands so strongly that it’s like a physical  _ pull _ in his chest. 

Richie shakes his head, apologizes in a voice so small and broken that it feels like maybe the Monster Killer  _ did  _ turn into a snake, is squeezed tight around Eddie’s chest. Richie is  _ crying _ , and that’s always something that’s fucked with Eddie on a deep, unexplainable level, right at the core of his being. If someone ever made Richie cry—or any of the other Losers, really—Eddie could suddenly scrounge up the bravery he never could, felt that fiery need to make sure whoever caused the people he cared most in this world to hurt got what was coming to them. 

Eddie is holding Richie’s hands in his own, listening to him hiccup through his tears,  _ “Sorry, sorry, Eds, I’m so sorry…”  _ and he feels so fucking useless in that moment. He opens his mouth, starts to say that he doesn’t need to apologize, that it’s okay, but he closes his mouth quickly and stares at their conjoined hands. Eddie goes over everything he witnessed—Fuches, calling Richie by his stage name (although, Eddie wonders if it even  _ is _ a stage name) and the way Richie crumbled under his words and accusations.

_ “Go ahead, kid, pull the fucking trigger!” _

_ “You’ve done it before, tons of times, haven’t you? Afghanistan, the Chechens, Chris—” _

_“You took the jobs, you killed those people, you killed Chris, that was _**_all_** **_you_**_, buddy!”_

_ “I’m not a bad person! You  _ ** _ma-ade_ ** _ me like t-this,  _ ** _you did this to me_ ** _ !” _

Richie didn’t deny any of it; he begged and screamed and pleaded, but he didn’t  _ deny it _ . He defended himself and apologized, and when the lights came on and Eddie saw rows and rows of what must be people Richie has known—with the way he paled and sobbed—bloodied and angry, Eddie felt something cold and uneasy twist in his gut. Something like the fear he felt when he saw Richie on top of Henry Bowers in the library, or like the shock when Richie pulled a gun out at the Jade of the Orient. It has always had a knack for pinpointing their worst fears and molding them into horrific reality. If Eddie was a masochist, he might call it an art. 

No matter how twisted and gruesome they were, though, one thing was always the same: they were rooted in truths.

One by one, the dots were connecting, the light bulbs flickering on, and a picture comes into view. A picture Eddie isn’t sure he’s ready to see, let alone process. 

“Look, whatever it is, we can talk about it after all this. I… I don’t fucking understand everything that just happened,” Eddie looks away, squeezes Richie’s hands, “but I do know this is what the fucker wants.” The worry and anxiety that’s been building up in him starts to morph into an anger that is easy and familiar, burning slow in his chest. This fucking clown keeps  _ hurting _ them, keeps taking and taking and  _ taking _ , messing with their lives, feeding off the fear It creates. He’s sick of it.

“He _wants _this, Rich.” Eddie can hear the resolution in his own voice, wants to chase this feeling that might be bravery, might be exhaustion mixed with ‘_fuck it, I’m _**_over_**_ this,’ _so he keeps going. “He wants us fucking… _terrified_, he wants us to give up, wants us to die down here, and… and we fucking might, at this rate.” Eddie laughs again, that manic, giddy giggle from when Henry Bowers fucking stabbed him. 

Maybe it’s the fact that they’re probably going to die, or the way Richie—who rarely  _ ever _ allowed such things—showed his vulnerability. Maybe he’s delirious from clown magic and sewer fumes and blood loss, but whatever it is, it makes Eddie want to open his heart up too, share it with Richie.

“You… You told me, up there, that I was braver than I thought… And… I-I think…” Eddie swallows, feels the words heavy on his tongue, “I think you… a-and the Losers… you guys help me do that.” He adds the second part quickly, worried that he’s showing too much, being too obvious, but whatever that bullshit had covered up, Eddie exposes once more, ripping off the bandaid and letting Richie see.

“You make me want to be brave again.”

The words hang in the air between them heavily, but Eddie feels light and airy. The metaphorical snake that’s been wrapped around his chest releases, squeezes again comfortable and warm, like something he’s known all his life (and he has.)

Richie is staring at him like Eddie just admitted a long lost secret of the universe, or maybe like he grew a third eye and an extra mouth, but it makes Eddie feel flushed all over either way. 

And call him crazy, but he feels like he wants to reach over and pull Richie in, say the words over and over against his lips.

Whatever moment they’d been having gets ruined by a noise that rattles the walls and sends a cold chill down Eddie’s spine. They both get to their feet and run towards it, stopping at the opening of the cavern to see Mike begging and pleading with that fucking clown, now a building-sized spider creature from their nightmares. The other Losers are spread across It’s lair, calling out to Mike, bruised and terrified. He feels useless again, all that talk about bravery leaking from his cold bones onto the rocky ground, and he squeezes Richie’s hand, prays that maybe he can steal some of that Trashmouth Fearlessness he’d had as a kid. It’s grounding, having that big hand in his, makes Eddie feel like he could fight if they needed him to.

And then it’s gone.

Everything happens too fast for Eddie, sand slipping through his fingers, water rushing through a gorge.

Richie is by his side, and then he isn’t. Eddie watches him run toward the center of the cave, pull his arm back and toss a stone right at the side of It’s face. The breath rushes out of Eddie in a rush as Richie keeps hurling rocks, his raw voice echoing in the chaos. 

Eddie’s chest blooms watching Richie, heart throbbing painfully. He takes one hesitant step forward, towards the fight, towards  _ Richie, _ and then Pennywise opens his great big void of a mouth, with endless black and blinding light and lets out a low sound that vibrates to the core of him. Everything goes stark white, so harsh Eddie has to shield his eyes, and when he opens them again, the world is bathed in cool blue, Beverly, Bill, and Mike are screaming, and Richie is floating.

Richie is floating.

_ Richie is fucking floating. _

Eddie doesn’t scream, he can’t. He feels absolutely frozen, like it’s  _ him _ caught in the deadlights, not Richie, and that thought alone starts spinning circles in his mind, a tilt-a-whirl that makes him want to dry heave all over his sneakers. 

Richie in the deadlights. Richie in the deadlights.  _ Richie in the deadlights. _

It spins and spins and spins until all that’s left in his mind is an incomprehensible buzz of static that tingles all along him, down his spine, over his shoulders and to his hands. Eddie grips the Monster Killer, feels it hum with the crackling energy coming off him in waves. 

_ It kills monsters. If you believe it does. _

Eddie throws it. 

He pulls his arm back and screams, pure emotion driving the fence spike toward the clown. 

Anger. Terror. Worry. Love. Love, love,  _ love.  _ For his friends, for his  _ family. _ For the only people who ever loved him for being Eddie Kaspbrak, and  _ just _ Eddie Kaspbrak.

He doesn’t look to see if the spear lands, because he believes it does. 

_ He walks with Richie all the way to his house, because it’s the only place he can get clean without his mother having an aneurysm. Richie’s parents work during the day, so he assures the house will be empty. They walk their bikes side by side, mostly quiet save for Eddie’s groans of disgust every time his sticky shirt rubs him the wrong way, followed by a soft snicker from Richie. _

_ They drop their bikes on the front lawn and head inside. Eddie toes his shoes off on the porch at the door, wrinkling his nose at the way even his socks leave grey marks on the Tozier’s tiles. _

_ “I’ll let you have first shower,” Richie starts rooting through the kitchen and pulls out a garbage bag. Eddie is about to thank him when he keeps going. “‘Cause I know you’ll bust a blood vessel if you stay like that, you baby.”  _

_Eddie huffs, juts his chin out and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well excuse me for not wanting to be covered in fucking sewage. I _**_will_** _take the first shower, dick.” He stomps his way over to the bathroom, stopping by the closet where Mrs. Tozier keeps the guest linens._

_ “Towels are in the--” Richie yells before Eddie cuts him off. _

_ “I know where the towels are!” _

_ “And your sleepover clothes are—” _

_ “In the third drawer, I know!” _

_ Eddie takes a shower with the hottest water he can stand. He scrubs himself until there’s pink marks all over his arms and legs, takes some sick satisfaction in the greywater swirling down the drain, and then has to close his eyes and count to one hundred, so he doesn’t think about what lies deep in the sewers beneath Derry. He lets water drip into his cast, avoiding the thoughts of how his mother will react when she sees what he’s done to it. And oh, god, how she’ll react when he actually comes  _ ** _home_ ** _ … _

_ He’s not sure how long he spends in the bathroom, but once Eddie decides he’s decent enough to face the world again, he exits back into the main room, patting his hair with the fluffy towels that Mrs. Tozier buys from the corner store. “You’re gonna have to help me think of what to say to my mom about my cast.” Eddie calls out, towel around his shoulders. “She’s gonna lose her fucking mind when she sees—” _

_ Richie is sitting on the floor of the living room, eyes staring blankly out ahead. He’s stiff as a board, no acknowledgement of Eddie’s words. He calls his name out, questioning, but Richie doesn’t respond. Eddie would think he’s a vegetable if he couldn’t see the way his hands fist over and over into his pants.  _

_ “Rich?” He tries again, reaching a hand out to touch the top of his matted curls. Richie startles, sucks in a huge breath and stares up at Eddie, bug-eyed, like he’d just noticed him. Maybe he has. “Are you okay?” _

_ Richie keeps staring at him, his hands clenching until his knuckles are white before releasing again, over and over. He looks  _ ** _through _ ** _ Eddie, expression blank that makes Eddie think about the kids floating in the cistern, and he shivers. Richie opens his mouth once, twice, like he’s going to answer, maybe crack some joke about Eddie’s mom, or how he’s got sewer water in his dick, but instead, he lets out a watery breath that punches Eddie straight in the gut.  _

_ “No. I’m not okay, Eds.” One single tear drips down his dirty cheek, followed by another, and it’s like a floodgate opening, then, water spilling over his face, dribbling from his chin onto his dirty clothes. He inhales, uncertain and shaky, and shoves his face in his hands, under his glasses. _

_ Eddie doesn’t know what to do. He can count the times on one hand that Richie Tozier has cried in front of him, and one of those times was during a particularly sad movie that included the death of a family dog. But Richie is crying now,  _ ** _really crying_ ** **, ** _ and Eddie isn’t prepared for the way it hurts his chest so much to see it. He drops to his knees in front of Richie and reaches out, ignoring how he just showered and how Richie is still filthy. He puts his hands on Richie’s slim shoulders and squeezes. _

_ “Hey, hey, Rich… it’s okay. It’s okay, Richie, it’s over. It’s over.” Eddie tries to soothe him, wracks his brain for the right words to say and feels so guilty when he can’t find them. Richie shakes his head, inhales sharply so that Eddie can feel the way his body tremors all over. It all must be setting in, what they just did, how much they could have lost. Richie was running on pure adrenaline in the sewers, and now he’s all spent. _

_ “W-What if I-It comes ba-ack?” Richie finally looks up at him, and Eddie didn’t think his heart could hurt any more than it did. Eddie wants to say that It won’t, that they got rid of it for good, and that everything will be okay now. They can have normal summers and play at the arcade and swim at the quarry. _

_ But… none of that would be true. _

_ So he grips Richie’s shoulders tight, meets him eye to eye and says the only thing that would make  _ ** _him_ ** _ feel better. “Then we’ll fight it together. We’ve always been stronger together, Rich.” _

_ He pulls Richie against him, rests his chin on his head and lets Richie tuck his into Eddie’s shoulder. Richie smells like sewer water and shit, is covered in blood and dirt and grime, and Eddie  _ ** _just_ ** _ got clean, but he holds him tight anyway. He holds him against his chest while Richie lets the tears he never sheds out so quiet, Eddie thinks he’d forget they were there if he couldn’t feel the wet spots against his shirt. _

_ They stay like that for some time, sitting on the floor of the living room while Richie evens out his breathing. Eddie rubs his back, pats his head, rests his cheek on top of the curls that desperately need an entire shampoo bottle and a good brushing. It’s calm and quiet, an easy silence that Eddie has always loved when he’s with Richie. He sniffles against Eddie, who feels his fingers tighten at the back of his shirt. Richie clears his throat and Eddie waits, prepares himself for another pep talk about clown-murder. _

_ “Y-you’re… gonna have to take another shower, Spaghetti.” Richie chuckles weakly, pulls back to look at Eddie with his big, red-rimmed eyes, and Eddie, helpless as he is, laughs. _

_ He laughs until his cheeks hurt and Richie is smiling back, tear-stained face looking tired, but lighter.  _

_ “Well, you better have more clothes for me to borrow, asshole.” _

Eddie runs towards Richie’s weightless body, breathing hard and fast, tripping over craggly rocks and ledges. Richie is floating midair, just low enough that Eddie can hop up and grab hold of his ankle, tug him down towards the ground where Eddie can reach him.

“Rich, oh god, fuck,  _ fuck _ , Richie, wake  _ up. _ ” Eddie is talking fast and low, hands shaking while he grips the edges of Richie’s jacket. “Wake up, you fucking asshole,  _ snap out of it. _ ”

Richie’s eyes are white and glazed over, his mouth slack and open. Eddie holds his face and nearly recoils at how  _ cold _ he is, like a fucking corpse, and the thought almost makes Eddie want to hurl again. There’s blood dripping down his nose, over his lips, tiny bubbles of it floating up into the air around them. Eddie pats his cheek once, twice, grips his shirt so hard he might rip it.

“You absolute  _ dickwad _ , if you don’t wake up I’m gonna… I’m gonna—” Eddie can’t finish the statement, can’t bear to finish the train of thought where Richie stays trapped in the deadlights like all those kids, like Beverly almost had all those years ago.

It smacks Eddie across the face like a frying pan. 

Bev was caught in the deadlights. She’d been caught in the deadlights when they were thirteen, but she’d gotten out of it. She’d gotten out of it because Ben had pulled her down and he’d… he’d…

“I swear, Richie, you better fucking  _ wake up _ .” 

There’s a tiny, furious part of Eddie that is screaming at the top of it’s lungs about how the first time he’s kissing Richie is because of that  _ fucking _ clown. But that part is shoved so far back into his mind by the pure fear and hope Eddie is holding onto for dear life, that he’s pouring into Richie when their lips touch, urging his warmth into him. He presses his lips against Richie’s ice cold ones, soft and determined, holding his face in his hands. 

“Please, Rich. Wake up, wake the  _ fuck _ up. Please, Please…” Eddie begs between them, feeling the telltale sting behind his eyes with every kiss that doesn’t wake Richie up, like he’s the wrong knight for the job. Eddie can taste the salty tang of blood from Richie’s nose, feels the rough stubble against his fingers, and it’s wrong,  _ so wrong,  _ because  _ Richie isn’t moving. _

Eddie pulls back a fraction, looks into those lifeless eyes and tries to hold onto the hope that feels like it’s draining out of him. He wraps his arms around Richie’s shoulders and buries his face against his neck, squeezing tight.  _ Please Rich, _ he thinks,  _ I need you to wake up. _

Everything starts to feel heavy, unnaturally heavy, and then there are strong arms wrapping around him. The world is tilting sideways, a quick freefall to the ground. He lands on top of Richie’s body, still cold but warmer than before, Pushes himself up onto his hands the second they reach the ground to look below him, scared and suspicious of what he’ll find; down here, things are usually too good to be true.

But Richie is stirring, eyes fluttering, voice dazed and slow. His hands are gripped into Eddie’s hoodie at the back, keeping him close. He’s sure Richie can feel his heart thudding against his ribs, and before Richie can come to enough to know what’s happening, Eddie slides his hand over Richie’s chest and waits. A moment passes, then another.

_ Thump... Thump... _

Eddie has never been so glad to feel anything in his life, so he laughs, shaky and wet, dives down onto Richie again to grip him tight in his arms. He buries his face in Richie’s neck and heaves a sigh of relief. “Oh fuck, thank  _ God _ , Richie… Rich I thought—”

“ _ Move.” _ Richie groans, pawing weakly at Eddie’s chest.

“W-What?” Eddie is breathless, feels the shock and adrenaline of almost losing Richie making him giddy and idiotic. “Rich, you got caught in the deadlights, but I threw the Monster Killer! I threw it and I-I think I—”

“Eds, gotta—” Richie grunts, hooks his leg over Eddie’s waist and ignores the way he protests. He tries to stop Richie, tries to get him to return to himself a little more before he starts rolling around the floor like they’re wrestling. Eddie lets out a yelp when Richie starts to turn them, opens his mouth mid-turn to curse at his best friend when it hits him.

There’s a  _ woosh _ right by his head, centimeters away. He thinks maybe whatever it is just barely misses them. Richie rolls on top of him, warm weight that presses down on Eddie. Richie inhales again, chokes on it with a pained grunt, and when Eddie moves left hand, he feels something wet.

“R-Rich?”

Richie groans in response, sits up on his knees and stares down at Eddie, eyes widening in horror. There’s a crack on his glasses that’s smudged red. Eddie cocks his head, feeling lightheaded when he speaks.

“Rich… your glasses… they’re dirty.”

He reaches his right hand out towards Richie’s face, feels a white hot knife of pain shoot all the way up to his shoulder, burning fire that spreads across his back and chest. His chest feels tight, all his nerves feel like they’re buzzing with electricity and heat. Richie opens his mouth, reaches out with Eddie’s name on his tongue.

Everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember to hit up my twitter @mreddiespagetti and phils twitter @_eddiebears 
> 
> I'm also selling pins! Join the Kaspbrak Defense Squad and get yours before my pre-order ends >:)
> 
> https://www.etsy.com/listing/772441491/pre-order-kaspbrak-defense-squad-pin?ref=shop_home_active_1&crt=1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be posting new chapters whenever I can :3c


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